GIFT  OF 
Stone  Deavours 


THE  MISSISSIPPI  POETS 


THE  MISSISSIPPI 
POETS 


BY 

V  X 

ERNESTINE  CLAYTON  DEAVOURS 

FORMERLY   TEACHER   IN   THE  CITY  SCHOOLS  OF  LAUREL,  MISSISSIPPI 


E.  H.  CLARKE  &  BROTHER 

18  SOUTH  MAIN  STREET 
MEMPHIS 


'-<Sl4> 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
ERNESTINE  CLAYTON  DEAVOURS 


IN    MEMORY   OF   ADELINE 


CONTENTS 


ABNEY,  HENRY  M. 

The  Mound-Builders 15 

ADAMS,  T.  A.  S. 

Growing    Gray 17 

BAKER,  JULIA  K.  WETHERILL 

When  All  Is  Said 21 

BEALL,  CHATTIE 

Premature  Gray  Hairs 23 

BERRYHILL,  S.  NEWTON 
•     My   Castle 24 

Mississippi 27 

The  Frost  and  the  Forest 28 

The  Forgotten  Picture 28 

Tidings  from  the  Battle  Field 31 

When  I  Am  Dead  and  Gone 33 

BIEN,  H.  M. 

The  Best  and  the  Worst 34 

BONNER,  SHERWOOD 

A  Longed-For  Valentine 36 

BRISBANE,  MARGARET  HUNT 

Menelaus  to  Helen 37 

The  Dead  Leaf 38 

The   Snow 39 

A  Woman 41 

CAPPLEMAN,  JOSIE  FRAZEE 

Where  Do  the  Kisses  Grow? 43 

The  Dreams  of  a  Vanished  Day 45 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


CARPENTER,  MARCUS  T.  PAGE 

On  the  Return  of  the  Mississippi  Volunteers     ...       48 
Spring 50 

CHAMBERS,  BETTIE  KEYES 

A   Fancy 52 

CLAIBORNE,  J.  F.  H. 

The  Maid  of  Pascagoula 54 

DIMITRY,  MAUD  L.  S. 

Cupid  and  Psyche 56 

Wilt  Thou  Return? 57 

ELEMJAY,  LOUISE 

' '  They  May  Deem  >Tis  the  Love  of  Another "     .      .      .       62 

ELLETT,  A.  H. 
Faith 64 

FOLSOM,  ISRAEL 

The  Indian's  Song 66 

FRANTZ,  VIRGINIA 

Hungry  Hearts 68 

GIBSON,  J.  M. 

The  Violets 70 

GORDON,  JAMES 

Lochinvar        73 

GREER,  MARY  A. 
Why  Jefferson  Davis  Failed 75 

GUYTON,  DAVID  E. 

Triolets       . 77 

Yesterday 78 

HAMBERLIN,  LAFAYETTE  E. 

She  Kissed  My  Violets 80 

The  Woman  in  the  Moon 81 

HAMLETT,  LIZZIE 
Maternity .     •     .       82 


CONTENTS  ix 


HARTZ,   ASA  PAGE 

My  Love  and  I 84 

HEBRON,  ELLEN  E. 

To   My   Brother 86 

HEMINGWAY,  GRACE  HYER 

The    Seekers 88 

HINSDALE,  LAURA  F. 

Mysterious  Music  of  the  Gulf  Coast 90 

Spanish   Moss 92 

HOSKINS,  WILLIAM  WALTON 

Prologue  of    "Atlantis" 94 

JEFFREY,  EOSA  VERTNER 

Angel  Watchers    . 96 

JONAS,  S.  A. 

A  Confederate  Note 99 

Only  a  Soldier's  Grave 100 

JOSSELYN,  ROBERT 

The  Young  Widow 101 

KENDALL,  JOHN  S. 

Eequiem 103 

Aspiration 105 

KERNAN,  WILL  H. 

Questionings 106 

LAMPE,  HERBERT 

It  Is  Spring  in  My  Heart 108 

LEE,  ELEANOR  PERCY 

Locust  Trees 110 

LEE,  MUNA 

Compensation 113 

Magdalen       . 114 

LOCKWOOD,  W.  B. 

Nail   the   Flag   to   the  Plow 115 


CONTENTS 


LOGAN,  MARGARET  ANN  PAGE 

Success 117 

LORD,  WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE 

A  Dirge 118 

LOWREY,  BOOTH 

The  Bed-Haired  Girl 119 

LOWREY,  PERRIN  HOLMES 

War  Dogs  of  the  Sea 121 

Song   of    the    Flag 122 

LYNCH,  JAMES  D. 

The  Fall  of  the  Alamo 124 

MALONE,  WALTER 

Opportunity 128 

The   World   Is   My  Home .129 

"He   Who   Hath  Loved " 130 

The  Graveyard 130 

MARTIN,  WALTER  D. 

Not  There 133 

McCLUNG,  ALEXANDER  K. 

Invocation  to  Death 134 

MOORE,  DAVID 

Take  Courage 135 

MONEY,  CLAUDIA  BODDIE 

To    a    Violinist 136 

NICHOLSON,  ELLZA  JANE 

Only  a  Heart 137 

The    Soldier's    Grave 139 

Waiting 140 

ODUM,  MARY  H.  M. 

The   Picket 142 

OLIVER,  JAMES  MCCARTY 

To   Hattie 145 


CONTENTS  xi 


OVERALL,  JOHN  W.  PAGE 

To  a  Miniature    .      .. .      .      .  '    .     147 

PERCY,  WILLIAM  ALEXANDER 

For  Music 150 

To   the    Mississippi :.  151 

To   a  Mocking  Bird:   From  Taormina    ......  151 

PERKINS,  HAL  M. 

When  I  Depart 153 

PRICE,  SUSAN  THOMPSON 

The    Sunset    Vale      ...............     154 

PURVIS,  EVELYN  M. 

One  of  the  Eeapers 156 

EAGSDALE,  LULAH 

Impennate 158 

The   Mother's   Son 159 

The  Illiterate        .      . •     .      ....  160 

EOBB,  JOHN  W.,  JR. 

Come  unto  Me      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      ...      .      .     162 

Eoss,  EMMETT  L. 

The  Solid  South  ....      ... 164 

EOWLAND,  ERON  OPHA 

A  Prayer  for  1918 168 

Biloxi 169 

EUSSELL,  IRWIN 

Nebuchadnezzar 172 

Selling    a    Dog ...     ....      .  174, 

The  Origin  of  the  Banjo    .........  175 

An   Exchange 178 

SHANNON,  EDMUND  G. 

Two    Little    Maids    .......      .      .      .      .      .     180 

SHIPJP,  BARNARD 

Concluding  Lines  of  Poem  "Beflections  on  the  Year 

1848"  .     .     .     ;.     .... 181 


xii  CONTENTS 


SIGNAIGO,  J.  AUGUSTINE  PAGE 

On  the  Heights  of  Mission  Eidge 182 

SIMMONS,  J.  F. 

The    Undecorated    Graves 184 

SMITH,  ALBERTA  ODELL 

The    Mother 186 

SMITH,  STEVE  W. 

My  Four  Little  Scamps 188 

THOMAS,  OLIVIA  TULLY 

"When  Peace  Returns" 189 

VANCE,  ADA  REEDY 

Death  by  the  Wayside 191 

WALWORTH,  JEANNETTE  H. 

My    Litany 194 

WARD,  WILLIAM 

The  Dying  Year 196 

WARFIELD,  CATHERINE  ANN 

I  Have  Seen  This  Place  Before 198 

WHELESS,  JENNIE  NOONAN 

Faint-Hearted 200 

YOUNG,  STARK 

Love  and  Sleep 202 

Sonnet         203 

Reaper's   Song 203 

The  Choice  of  Death  204 


PREFACE 

THE  compilation  of  this  volume  has  not  been  an 
easy  task.  It  may  not  appear  to  the  reader  that  the 
work  has  been  difficult;  but  the  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  its  preparation  have  been  many.  The  sources 
of  information  in  regard  to  the  poets  of  Mississippi 
are  meager.  The  poems  of  several  of  them  have 
never  been  published  in  book  form,  so  had  to  be 
searched  for  by  varying  methods.  In  some  in- 
stances, though  the  poems  had  been  published  in 
book  form,  the  volumes  were  out  of  print  and  had  to 
be  looked  for  in  several  places  before  being  found. 
Under  such  circumstances,  one  may  realize  that  the 
correspondence  necessary  has  been  considerable. 

The  compilation  is  not  complete.  I  wish  it  were. 
I  can  only  say,  touching  this  phase,  that  it  is  as  com- 
plete as  I  could  make  it  with  the  material  I  had  at 
hand  or  could  secure  access  to. 

I  considered  it  fair,  for  the  purposes  of  this  com- 
pilation, to  consider  as  Mississippi  poets  both  those 
who  were  born  in  the  state  and  those  who  lived  in 
the  state  for  any  considerable  period.  It  may  be 
that  some  other  compiler  would  have  adopted  a  dif- 
ferent plan  of  classification;  but  I  hope  that  mine 
may  be  considered  proper.  It  is  an  easy  matter  to 
classify  poets  as  English  or  French  or  Italian,  and 

ii 


12  PREFACE 

so  on ;  but  there  are  complications  when  one  attempts 
to  determine  a  classification,  as  among  more  than 
forty  states,  all  members  of  one  Union,  and  all  under 
one  government,  with  all  their  peoples  using  one  lan- 
guage. It  is  not  out  of  the  ordinary  in  the  United 
States  for  a  person  to  be  born  in  one  state,  to  be  edu- 
cated in  another,  to  make  his  home  during  active  life 
in  another,  and  to  pass  his  old  age  and  to  die  in  still 
another. 

The  biographical  mention  has  been  made  as  brief 
as  possible. 

If  any  one  entitled  to  a  place  in  this  compilation 
has  been  omitted  from  it,  I  shall  be  genuinely  sorry 
that  such  is  the  case.  I  hope  that  my  attention  may 
be  called  to  the  omission  in  order  that,  at  a  later 
date,  the  matter  of  the  omission  may  be  remedied. 

It  is  my  sincere  hope  that  the  publication  of  this 
little  volume  will  help  to  awaken  an  interest  in  lit- 
erary matters  in  Mississippi, — particularly  in  the  lit- 
erature of  the  state.  If  its  publication  shall  do  this, 
it  will  have  accomplished  my  chief  purpose. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  I  have  had  ac- 
cess to  books  as  follows,  in  addition  to  practically  all 
the  published  volumes  of  the  authors  from  whose 
writings  selections  have  been  made: 

Library  of  Southern  Literature,  Publications  of  the 
Mississippi  Historical  Society,  Dunbar  Rowland's 
Mississippi  (in  three  volumes),  Stedman's  &  Hutch- 
inson's  Library  of  American  Literature,  Goodspeed's 
Memoirs  of  Mississippi,  Stedman's  American  Anthol- 
ogy, Miss  Clarke's  Songs  of  the  South,  Miss  For- 


PREFACE  13 

rest's  Women  of  the  South,  Dixon's  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Texas,  Cushman's  History  of  Choctaw,  Chickasaw 
and  Natchez  Indians,  Manly 's  Southern  Literature, 
Simms'  War  Poetry  of  the  South,  and  Davidson's 
Living  Writers  of  the  South. 

ERNESTINE  CLAYTON  DEAVOURS. 

LAUREL,  Miss. 

November  1,  1920. 


MISSISSIPPI   POETS 


HENRY  M.  ABNEY 

The  compiler  regrets  that  she  has  not  been  able  to  secure 
information  in  regard  to  this  author.  His  volume  of  poems, 
entitled  " Ballads  and  Sonnet  Variations/'  was  published  in 
1877. 

The  Mound-Builders 

IN  those  dim  years  forgotten  of  earth, 
What  wast  thou,  land  of  dream  and  doubt? 

Where  was  the  birthplace,  where  the  birth, 
Of  tribes  who  measured  out 

Their  mortal  steps  upon  thy  soil 
As  ruler,  vassal,  friend,  and  foe, — 

Who  lived  to  battle,  till,  and  toil 
Ages  ago? 

If  nations  waned  and  nations  grew, 

Within  thy  shores  as  ages  came; 
If  monarchs  swayed  and  conquerors  slew, 

And  passions  burned  as  flame, 
Time  hath  devoured  the  trace  of  all 

Save  these,  poor  relics  of  their  power, 
A  mound  of  earth,  a  buried  wall, 
An  old  stone  tower. 

15 


16  HENRY  M.  ABNEY 

Perhaps  above  where  madly  rang 

The  voice  of  wild  wave  on  thy  shore, 

Some  Sappho,  martyr-lover,  sang. 
But  tho'  these  things  be  o'er, 

Yet  time  is  just;  from  laureled  heads 
He's  loath  to  take  the  fair-won  crown; 

Time  reaps  the  ripened  wheat,  and  treads 
The  wild  weed  down. 

Heroes,  I  ween,  thou  hadst  to  strike 

For  thee,  who  might  our  greatest  spurn, 

In  bloody  fields  of  battle,  like 
Old   Scotland's   Bannockburn; 

Or  wise  half-gods,  who  ruled  as  gods 
Might  rule,  if  they  on  earth  did  dwell, 

Not  as  the  kings  whose  scourging  rods 
Make  earth  a  hell. 

Alas,  that  they  should  be  forgot 

If  thus  they  were;  but  if  I  dream, — 

I  wildly  dream, — it  matters  not; 
'Twere  better  thus,  I  deem, 

That  memory  of  their  actions  sleep, — 
That  darkest  death  enwrap  their  name 

Than  that  their  evil  deeds  should  reap 
Inglorious  fame. 


T.  A.  S.  ADAMS  17 


T.  A.  S.  ADAMS 

Thomas  A.  S.  Adams  was  horn  in  Noxubee  county  in  1839, 
and  died  suddenly  in  the  city  of  Jackson  in  1888.  He  was 
educated  at  the  University  of  Mississippi  and  at  Emory  and 
Henry  College,  Virginia.  After  preparing  for  the  ministry  he 
became  a  minister  of  the  Methodist  church.  He  served  as  a 
soldier  and  chaplain  in  the  Confederate  Army.  At  different 
times  he  was  engaged  in  teaching,  and  was  deeply  interested 
in  the  cause  of  education  in  the  South.  He  held  several  impor- 
tant pastorates  in  Mississippi.  He  was  the  author  of  two  vol- 
umes of  poems:  the  first,  published  in  1875,  entitled  "Ensco- 
tidion;  or  Shadow  of  Death/'  the  second,  published  in  1882, 
entitled  "Aunt  Peggy  and  Other  Poems. " 


Growing  Gray 

GROWING  gray!    A  silver  line 

Clotho  spins  me  day  by  day, 
And  as  through  the  black  they  shine 

I  am  growing  old  they  say! 
But  I'm  on  the  sunny  slope 

Of  the  hills  of  middle  life; 
Who  would  say,  to  mar  my  hope: 

"Atropos  whets  up  her  knife?" 
Yes,  she  whets  as  Clotho  spins, 

Clips  a  fiber  here  and  there ; 
Day  by  day  the  locks  she  thins 

Of  each  smoothest,  blackest  hair, — 


i8  T.  A.  S.  ADAMS 

Black  ones  that  will  come  no  more 
After  they  have  dropped  away; 

While  the  wrinkles  tell  me  o'er, 
I  am  growing  old  and  gray. 

And  is  age  so  very  nigh? 

Yesterday  my  heart  was  light. 
Now  a  film  is  on  my  eye, 

But  'tis  ten  o  'clock  at  night, 
I  am  growing  gray, — that's  all; 

'Tis  an  easy  thing  to  read 
When  the  letters  are  not  small ; 

But  this  type  is  bad  indeed. 
I've  a  stiffness  in  my  knee, — 

'Twas  not  there  a  year  ago, — 
'Tis  the  climate's  work,  you  see, 

And  the  lot  of  man  below. 
There's  a  dullness  at  my  heart, 

Labor  brought  that  on  to-day; 
Rest  will  cause  it  to  depart, 

Though  it  leaves  me  still  more  gray. 

Growing  gray,  and  grayer  still ! 

Looking  in  the  glass  I  see 
Some  one  hobbling  down  the  hill, 

Seeming  to  be  hunting  me. 
Bent  his  form,  and  dim  his  eye, 

How  he  prates  of  days  agone ! 
Begging  of  his  memory 

One  fresh  picture, — only  one: 
Only  one,  where  Love  and  Hope 

Weave  a  fadeless  wreath  to  crown 


T.  A.  S.  ADAMS  19 

Youth's  fair  brow,  whose  pathway  up 
Ne'er  shall  know  a  going  down. 

But  I  look  again, — I  see 
Into  night  he  fades  away; 

Does  he  think  while  hunting  me 
That  I  'm  growing  old  and  gray  ? 

Can  the  Future's  ghost  grow  old? 

Toothless,  and  of  faltering  speech, 
Howsoe'er  the  Past  may  scold, 

Its  young  grandchild,  out  of  reach, 
Hides  behind  the  curtains  bright 

In  its  games  of  hide  and  seek. 
Let  me  play  with  it  to-night, 

Ere  the  roses  leave  my  cheek. 
Down,  ye  bitter  memories! 

Down,  ye  dark  forebodings,  down ! 
In  the  blissful  future  rise 

Brightest  visions  ever  known. 
Be  they  false  or  be  they  true, 

What  is  that,  since  you  disdain 
Giving  back  the  locks  that  grew 

Glossy  on  my  brow  in  vain  ? 
0  ye  cares  that  on  my  track 

Hover  like  a  beast  of  prey ! 
I'll  not  try  to  drive  you  back, 

Though  I'm  growing  old  and  gray. 

Growing  gray !    Beyond  the  sun 
Sinking  slow  o'er  western  slopes, 

Streams  perennially  run, 

Sparkling  with  immortal  hopes; 


20  T.  A.  S.  ADAMS 

And  as  on  those  streams  I  look, 

Glossy  shine  the  locks  as  ever; 
Life  is  still  the  purling  brook, — 

Not  the  noisy  turbid  river. 
Care  is  but  a  phantom  grim, 

Drawn  with  charcoal  on  the  wall. 
Who  would  be  afraid  of  him, 

Whether  seeming  great  or  small  ? 
Faith  sits  calmly  in  the  shade 

Laughing  foolish  cares  away; 
And  I  smile  to  hear  it  said: 

"He  is  growing  old  and  gray." 

Go,  thou  spinster  sister,  go ! 

Spin  for  love  or  spin  for  spite! 
Let  the  locks  still  thinner  grow! 

Let  the  threads  grow  still  more  white. 
Clip,  thou  scowling  sister,  clip ! 

Clip  it  short  or  clip  it  long, 
111  not  let  the  moment  slip 

For  a  glad  and  hopeful  song. 
For  the  Graces,  too,  can  spin, 

They  can  weave  'mid  clouds  and  snows 
Veils  of  spotless  white  as  thin 

As  those  that  on  the  mount  repose, 
When  the  angel  of  the  night 

Stoops  to  change  with  that  of  day, 
And  with  its  departing  light 

Blends  the  golden  with  the  gray. 


JULIA  K.  WETHERILL  BAKER          21 


JULIA  K.  WETHERILL  BAKER 

Mrs.  Baker  was  born  in  Woodville  in  1858,  and  is  now  a 
resident  of  New  Orleans,  where  for  several  years  she  has  been 
connected  with  the  press.  She  has  been  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  leading  magazines. 


When  All  Is  Said 

WHEN  all  is  said, — when  all  our  words 
Of  love  and  pleasure,  one  by  one, 

Have  taken  wing  and  flown  like  birds 
That  seek  the  Southern  sun, — 

Naught  shall  be  changed.     The  sweet  delay 
Of  April  dusks,  the  rapturous  dawn, 

The  glowing  height  of  golden  day, 
Shall  all  go  on,  and  on. 

The  birds  shall  shake  the  rosy  bough 
With  ecstasy  of  springtime  song; 

And  in  the  meadows,  then  as  now, 
The  grass  shall  crowd  and  throng. 

There  shall  be  flowers  and  flowers! — to  waste 
Along  the  paths  where  victors  tread, 

Or  where  the  feasters,  singing,  haste, — 
And  wreaths  to  deck  the  dead. 


22          JULIA  K.  WETHERILL  BAKER 

And  not  the  less  clear  streams  shall  run 
Through  secret  haunts  of  woodland  gloom; 

And  I  shall  smile,  as  smiles  the  sun 
On  cradle  and  on  tomb. 

When  all  is  said, — Soul  of  my  soul, 
Could  all  be  said  of  love's  delight, 

'Twixt  thee  and  me,  though  time  should  roll 
Beyond  earth's  day  and  night? 


CHATTIE  BEALL  23 


CHATTIE  BEALL 

Mrs.  Beall, — who  is  now  a  resident  of  Washington  City,  where 
her  husband,  Hon.  Fred  Beall,  is  a  distinguished  lawyer, — lived 
for  many  years  at  West  Point,  Miss.  Her  poems  have  never 
been  published  in  book  form. 


Premature  Gray  Hairs 

OH  !  why  did  the  frosty  old  finger  of  Care 
Seek  out  a  page  so  faultlessly  fair, 
And  write  in  white  signs  on  that  jetty  black  hair 
God's  own  secret, — an  unanswered  prayer? 
Were  there  not  brows  enough  already  lined, 
Where  shrouded  hopes  were  sacredly  twined, 
And  dead  loves  and  lost  loves  are  sadly  enshrined. 
Where  care  a  more  fitting  tablet  could  find? 
Spare  that  young  brow,  'tis  so  splendidly  fair, 
Shadows  of  smiles  should  only  fall  there! 
Snowy  white  roses  those  tresses  should  wear, 
And  not  thy  handwriting,  0  pitiless  Care. 


24      S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 

This  author  was  born  in  what  is  now  Webster  county  in  1839, 
and  died  in  that  county  in  1887.  He  was  an  invalid  from  early 
manhood,  and  unable  to  stand  on  his  feet.  For  a  time  he  lived 
in  Lowndes  county,  and  served  one  term  as  treasurer  of  that 
county.  In  1878  he  published  at  Columbus  his  one  volume  of 
verse,  entitled  "Backwoods  Poems. " 


My  Castle 

THEY  do  not  know,  who  sneer  at  me  because  I'm 

poor  and  lame, 
And  round  my  brow  has  never  twined  the  laurel 

wreath  of  fame, — 
They  do  not  know  that  I  possess  a  castle,  old  and 

grand, 

With  many  an  acre  broad  attached  of  fair  and  fer- 
tile land; 
With  hills  and  dales,  and  lakes  and  streams,  and 

fields  of  waving  grain, 
And  snowy  flocks,   and  lowing  herds,  that  browse 

upon  the  plain. 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  good  demesne, — how  would  my  scorn- 

ers  stare 
Could  they  behold  the  splendors  of  my  Castle  in  the 

Air! 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL  25 

The  room  in  which  I'm  sitting  now  is  smoky,  bare, 
and  cold, 

But  I  have  gorgeous  stately  chambers  in  my  pal- 
ace old. 

Eich  paintings,  by  the  grand  old  masters,  hang  upon 
the  wall, 

And  marble  busts  and  statues  stand  around  the  spa- 
cious hall. 

A  chandelier  of  silver  pure,  and  golden  lamps  illume, 

With  rosy  light,  on  festal  nights,  the  great  reception 
room, 

When  wisdom,  genius,  beauty,  wit,  are  all  assembled 
there, 

And  strains  of  sweetest  music  fill  my  Castle  in  the 
Air. 

About  the   castle   grounds,   ten  thousand  kinds  of 

flowers  bloom, 
And  freight  each  passing  zephyr  with  a  load  of  sweet 

perfume. 
Thick  clumps  of  green  umbrageous  trees  afford  a 

cool  retreat, 
Where  oft  I  steal  me  when  the  sun  pours  down  his 

scorching  heat, 

&nd  there,  upon  a  mossy  bank,  recline  the  livelong  day, 
And  watch  the  murmuring  fountains  in  the  marble 

basins   play; 
Or  listen  to  the  song  of  birds,  with  plumage  bright 

and  rare, 
Which  flit  among  the  trees  around  my  Castle  in  the 

Air. 


26  S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 

Sometimes  the  mistress  of  my  castle  sits  beside  me 

there, 
With  dark-blue  eyes  so  full  of  love,  and  sunny  silken 

hair; 
With  broad,  fair,  classic  brow,  where  genius  sheds 

his  purest  ray, 

And  little,  dimpled,  rosy  mouth,  where  smiles  for- 
ever play. 

Ah,  she  is  very  dear  to  me ;  her  maiden  heart  alone 
Returned  my  soul's  deep  love,  and  beat  responsive  to 

my  own; 
And  I  chose  her  for  my  spirit-bride,  this  maiden, 

young  and  fair, 
And  now  she  reigns  sole  mistress  of  my  Castle  in  the 

Air. 

The   banks   may   break,    and   stocks   may   fall;   the 

Croesus  of  to-day 
May  see,  to-morrow,  all  his  wealth,  like  snow,  dissolve 

away, 
And  th'  auctioneer,  at  panic  price,  to  the  highest 

bidder  sell 
His  marble  home,  in  which  a  king  might  well  be 

proud  to  dwell. 

But  in  my  Castle  in  the  Air  I  have  a  sure  estate, 
No  panic,  with  its  hydra-head,  can  e  'er  depreciate, 
No  hard-faced  sheriff  dares  to  levy  execution  there, 
For  universal  law  exempts  a  Castle  in  the  Air. 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL  27 


Mississippi 

THANK  God!  she  is  not  conquered  yet,- 

The  brave  old  Rifle  State ! 
Tho'  many  a  recreant  son  has  fled 

And  left  her  to  her  fate. 
She  well  can  spare  the  craven  wretch 

Who  safety  seeks  afar; 
Who  wore  the  lion's  hide  in  peace, 

But  plays  the  sheep  in  war. 

She  is  not  conquered  yet!     Her  flag 

Still  proudly  floats  on  high; 
From  every  hill,  and  vale,  and  swamp, 

Is  heard  the  slogan  cry. 
Old  men  and  boys  have  rushed  to  arms 

Who  scorn  the  vandal's  wrath, — 
Whose  breasts  shall  be  a  living  wall 

Across  a  conqueror's  path. 

And  by  the  graves  of  martyred  sons 

In  bloody  conflict  slain, 
We  swear  our  dear  old  Mother  State 

Shall  wear  no  master's  chain! 
Ere  she  is  bound,  each  sunny  plain 

A  Marathon  shall  be, 
And  every  narrow,  rugged  pass 

A  red  Thermopylae! 


28  S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 


The  Frost  and  the  Forest 

THE  Frost  King  came  in  the  dead  of  night, — 
Came  with  jewels  of  silver  sheen, — 

To  woo  by  the  spinster  Dian's  light 
The  pride  of  the  South, — the  Forest  Queen. 

He  wooed  till  morn  and  went  away  ; 

Then  I  heard  the  Forest  faintly  sigh, 
And  she  blushed  like  a  girl  on  her  wedding  day, 

And  her  blush  grew  deeper  as  time  went  by. 

Alas,  for  the  Forest!     The  cunning  Frost 
Her  ruin  sought,  when  he  came  to  woo; 

She  moaned  all  day  for  her  glory  lost, 
And  her  blush  has  changed  to  a  deathlike  hue. 


The  Forgotten  Picture 

IN  the  dark  old  chamber  of  my  mind, 

Up  many  a  winding  stair, 
I  have  a  little  room  that's  full 

Of  pictures  old  and  rare. 

I've  portraits  there  of  gray-haired  men, 
And  maidens  young  and  fair, 

Sweet  matrons  with  their  angel  smiles 
And  babes  with  golden  hair. 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 29 

Dear  kindred  that  have  left  the  earth 

To  join  the  angel  band, 
And  friends  I  loved  in  early  years, — 

Gone  to  the  spirit  land. 

And  I  have  there  fair  landscapes,  too, 

With  verdure  fresh  and  green, — 
Houses,  and  fields,  and  gurgling  streams, 

With  clumps  of  trees  between; 

And  many  a  scene  of  joy  or  grief 

I  knew  in  bygone  years: 
Death-beds  of  those  I  loved, — but  these 

Are  sadly  soiled  with  tears. 

Yest're'en  I  was  a- weary  grown 
Of  the  toils,  and  cares,  and  strife, 

That  ever  have  beset  the  path 
Which  I  have  trod  through  life; 

And  I  shut  me  up  in  this  little  room, 

Where  the  sunbeams  rarely  fall, 
And  watched  the  pictures  as  they  hung 

Upon  the  dark-brown  wall. 

In  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room, 

I  found  upon  the  floor, 
A  picture  moldered  o'er  with  age, 

I  had  not  seen  before. 


30  S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 

I  bore  it  to  the  feeble  light, 
But  I  could  scarcely  trace, — 

The  mildew  was  so  thick  on  it, — 
The  outlines  of  the  face. 

I  brushed  away  the  cruel  dust, 

And  saw  my  Nancy  there! 
Just  as  she  looked  long  time  ago, 

When  she  was  young  and  fair. 

Her  dark-brown  hair  was  parted  smooth 

Upon  her  pale,  sweet  brow, 
And  fell  in  rich  profusion  o'er 

Her  shoulders  white  as  snow; 

Her  lips  half  parted,  still  were  wet 
With  the  kiss  I  left  on  them: 

And  purity  sat  on  her  brow, 
Like  a  queenly  diadem; 


Her  hazel  eyes  gazed  into  mine 
With  a  look  that  seemed  to  say: 

6 1  Couldst  thou  not  give  one  thought  to  me 
While  I  was  far  away?" 

Oh!  how  my  spirit  trembled  then, 

As  pictures  of  the  past, 
Along  the  wall  in  the  shadowy  gloom, 

Came  thronging  thick  and  fast. 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL  31 

The  drama  of  our  early  love, 

Glided  before  my  view 
Like  a  panorama,  and  I  lived 

Those  blissful  hours  anew. 

But  the  ghosts  of  all  my  withered  hopes 

Came  gibbering  round  me  then, 
And  mocked  me  with  a  bitter  taunt 

Of  what  I  might  have  been. 


Tidings  from  the  Battle  Field 

" FRESH  tidings  from  the  battle  field!" 

A  widowed  mother  stands, 
And  lifts  the  glasses  from  her  eyes 

With  trembling,  withered  hands. 
" Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field! 

Your  only  son  is  slain; 
He  fell  with  t Victory!'  on  his  lips, 

And  a  bullet  in  his  brain." 
The  stricken  mother  staggers  back, 

And  falls  upon  the  floor; 
And  the  wailing  shriek  of  a  broken  heart 

Comes  from  the  cottage  door. 

''Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field!" 

The  wife  her  needle  plies, 
While  in  the  cradle  at  her  feet 

Her  sleeping  infant  lies. 
"Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field! 

Your  husband  is  no  more, 


32 S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL 

But  lie  died  as  a  soldier  loves  to  die, — 

His  wounds  were  all  before." 
Her  work  was  dropped, — "0  God!"  she  moans, 

And  lifts  her  aching  eyes; 
The  orphaned  babe  in  the  cradle  wakes, 

And  joins  its  mother's  cries. 

1  'Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field!" 

A  maid  with  pensive  eye 
Sits  musing  near  the  sacred  spot 

Where  she  heard  his  last  good-by. 
" Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field! 

Your  lover's  cold  in  death; 
But  he  breathed  the  name  of  her  he  loved 

With  his  expiring  breath." 
With  hands  pressed  to  her  snowy  brow, 

She  strives  her  grief  to  hide; 
She  shrinks  from  friendly  sympathy, — 

A  widow  ere  a  bride. 

" Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field!" 

Oh,  what  a  weight  of  woe 
Is  borne  upon  their  blood-stained  wings 

As  on,  still  on  they  go ! 
War!— eldest  child  of  Death  and  Hell!— 

When  shall  thy  horrors  cease? 
When  shall  the  gospel  usher  in 

The  reign  of  love  and  peace? 
Speed,  speed  the  blissful  time,  0  Lord! — 

The  blessed,  happy  years, — 
When  plow-shares  shall  be  made  of  swords, 

And  pruning-hooks  of  spears! 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL  33 


When  I  Am  Dead  and  Gone 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  sun  will  shine  as  bright  as  now, 
The  summer  skies  appear  as  blue; 
The  distant  mountain's  brow, 

Kissed  by  the  early  dawn, 
Will  blush  as  roseate  a  hue. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  sweet  wild-flowers  will  bloom  as  fair, 
In  woods  where  I  was  wont  to  roam ; 
And  birds  with  plumes  as  bright  and  rare, 

Sing  in  as  sweet  a  tone 
Among  the  trees  around  my  home. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  merry  laugh  will  ring  as  clear 
Among  my  friends.    They'll  jest  as  free; 
And  some,  the  songs  I  love  to  hear 

Will  sing  in  careless  tone, 
And  never  give  one  thought  to  me. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  maiden  that  I  love  so  well* 
The  arbor  vitae  at  my  head 
Will  pluck,  some  loving  swain  to  tell 

She  lives  for  him  alone, 
And  hath  forgot  the  lover  dead. 


34  H.  M.  BIEN 


H.  M.  BIEN 

Babbi  Bien  made  his  home  for  many  years  at  Vicksburg.  He 
was  the  author  of  several  books:  "Ben  Beor,77  "Oriental 
Legends,77  "Feast  of  Lights/7  "What  Is  Judaism?77  "Sam- 
son,77 and  others.  His  first  book  was  published  in  1883. 


The  Best  and  the  Worst 

"SEARCH  the  bazaar,"  said  the  sheik  to  the  slave, 
"And  get  me  the  Best  which  the  markets  provide." 

The  slave  salaamed  lowly,  the  slave  answered  grave: 
"Thy  will  shall  be  done;  in  my  judgment  abide," 

And  soon,  on  returning,  said:  "Bightly  or  wrong, 

I  bring  here  the  Best  of  the  market, — a  tongue." 

' '  Search  the  bazaar, ' '  said  the  sheik  to  the  slave, 
"And  get  me  the  Worst  which  the  markets  pro- 
vide." 

The  slave  salaamed  lowly,  the  slave  answered  grave: 
"Thy  will  shall  be  done;  in  my  judgment  abide," 

And  soon,  on  returning,  said :    ' l  Eightly  or  wrong, 

I  bring  here  the  Worst  of  the  market, — a  tongue!" 

"Explain  what  thou  meanest!"  cried  the  sheik  to 

the  slave; 

"I'll  give  thee  thy  freedom  if  well  thou  decide." 
The  slave  salaamed  lowly,  the  slave  answered  grave: 


H.  M.  BIEN  35 


' l  Thy  will  must  be  done :  in  my  judgment  abide. 
Now  listen  and  say  if  I  'm  right  or  if  wrong : 
The  Best  and  the  Worst  in  the  world  is  the  tongue. 

"The  tongue  to  a  freedman  quick  changes  a  slave; 
The  tongue  enslaves  quickly  the  free,  though  he 

died; 
The  tongue  rules  the  world,  from  cradle  to  grave; 

The  tongue  sways  the  khedive  and  beggar  beside. " 
"Thy    tongue    made    thee    free!      Thou    argued    it 
Laughed  the  sheik.     "The  Best  and  the  Worst  is 
the  tongue!" 


36        SHERWOOD  BONNER 


SHERWOOD  BONNER 

Sherwood  Bonner  was  born  at  Holly  Springs  in  1849,  and 
died  there  in  1883.  For  a  short  time  she  lived  in  Texas,  but 
later  went  East,  making  her  home  in  Boston,  where  she  was 
kindly  received  by  the  literary  people  of  that  city.  The  poet 
Longfellow  was  one  of  her  close  friends.  Her  writings  consist 
almost  entirely  of  short  stories,  which  she  contributed  to  lead- 
ing magazines  in  the  North  and  East.  She  published  one  novel, 
"Like  unto  Like."  In  1883  a  collection  of  her  stories  was 
published  under  the  title  "Dialect  Tales, M  and  in  1884  a  sec- 
ond collection  appeared  under  the  title  "Suwanee  River 
Tales."  She  published  but  few  poems. 

A  Longed-For  Valentine 

COME  to  my  aching  heart,  my  weary  soul, 

And  give  my  thoughts  once  more  their  vanquished 

will; 

That  I  may  strive  and  feel  again  the  thrill 
Of  bounding  hope,  to  reach  its  farthest  goal, — 
Not  Love,  though  sweet  as  that  which  Launcelot  stole, 
Nor  Beauty,  happy  as  a  dancing  rill, 
Nor  Gold  poured  out  from  some  fond  miser's  till, 
Nor  yet  a  name  on  Fame's  immortal  scroll, — 
But  what  I  ask,  0  gracious  Lord,  from  Thee, 
If  to  Thy  throne  my  piteous  cry  can  reach, 
When  stricken  down  like  tempest-riven  tree, 
Too  low  for  prayer  to  wreak  itself  in  speech, 
Is  but  the  fair  gift — ah,  will  't  ne'er  be  mine? 
My  long-lost  Health  for  my  dear  Valentine. 


MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE  37 


MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE 

Mrs.  Brisbane,  a  native  of  Vicksburg,  comes  of  a  literary 
ancestry.  She  was  married  in  1883,  and  has  for  many  years 
made  her  home  in  New  Orleans.  She  was  a  member  of  the 
Mississippi  Press  Association,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
newspapers  in  Mississippi  while  she  lived  in  the  State,  and 
since  her  removal  to  New  Orleans  has  contributed  poems  to 
various  leading  periodicals. 

Menelaus  to  Helen 

I  LOVE  thee  as  well  as  of  old 

But  in  different  fashion; 

My  heart  and  my  soul  have  grown  cold 

To  the  calling  of  passion. 

I  have  learned  to  meet  calmly  the  days 

And  the  nights  that  surround  me; 

Forgetting  the  peace-planted  ways 

In  the  land  where  love  found  me. 

My  Queen,  I  could  suffer  all  things 

If  bliss  it  were  giving 

To  thee  of  the  white  Psyche-wings 

And  the  red  Eros  living! 

I  could  rest,  wide  awake  in  my  grave 

None  the  worse  for  life's  story 

Could  I  know  that  thy  soul,  once  so  brave 

Had  recaptured  its  glory. 


38  MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE 

Be  true  to  the  dreams  of  thy  youth — 

Let  nothing  degrade  thee! 

Rise  up — a  white  star — to  the  truth 

Of  the  white  gods  who  made  thee! 

My  heart,  like  a  taper,  burned  out 

Just  a  light  for  thy  walking ; 

But  I  died  in  that  moment  of  doubt — 

And  the  dead  must  cease  talking! 

The  Dead  Leaf 

I  WENT  out  in  the  garden  where  a  few  late  roses  blow ; 
I  left  them  on  their  altars  green — pale  chalices  of 

snow; 
I  left  the  gold  chrysanthemum  to  guard  the  russet 

land, 
And  came  in  with  an  Autumn  leaf — a  dead  leaf  in 

my  hand. 

Fit  symbol  of  my  heart  thou  art,  oh!  leaf,  so  cold 

and  brown; 
The  breeze  that  softly  wooed  thee  once  now  rudely 

shakes  thee  down, 
A  withered  and  forsaken  thing,  poor  little  leaf,  thou 

art, 
Yet  memories  of  a  former  hope  still  light  thy  dying 

heart, 

Here  lies  a  tracery  of  gold,  some  touch  of  Summer 

sun — 
Oh!  keep  it  in  thy  fading  hold,  thou  sad,  deserted 

one! 


MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE  39 

And  here  a  blaze  of  crimson  fire  too  full  of  life  to  die, 
Betrays    some    unforgotten    kiss    from    some    torch- 
lighted  sky. 

Oh!  heart  bereaved  and  colorless,  lift  to  God's  pity- 
ing eyes 

Thy  memories  of  thy  Summer  suns,  thy  blazing  sun- 
set skies; 

For  love  and  hope  were  once  thine  own,  they  kissed 
thee  long  ago, 

Before  November  skies  were  gray  with  prophecies  of 
snow. 

Love  is  a  memory,  hope  a  dream,  belief  an  empty 

husk; 

All  color  an  uncertain  gleam  that  dies  into  the  dusk ; 
The  night  is  near;  a  wailing  wind  frets   'neath  a 

troubled  sky; 
Gray  shadows  fall,  day's  pallid  pall — dead  leaf,  dead 

heart,  good-by! 

The  Snow 

WE  live  in  a  land  of  sunshine, 

So,  when  our  darling  died, 
"We  simply  pushed  away  the  flowers 

That  littered  the  green  hillside. 
And  made  her  a  bed  of  blossoms, 

This  dear  little  child  of  ours, 
And  covered  with  sweet,  from  head  to  feet, 

We  left  her  asleep  with  the  flowers. 


40  MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE 

And  all  through  the  balmy  Winter, 

I  think  how  the  pine  trees  fling 
Their  green  embrace  above  her — 

The  dear  little  sleeping  thing! 
And  all  through  the  Spring  and  Summer, 

Such   blossomy,   golden  hours, 
I  think  of  her  still,  asleep  on  the  hill, 

With  her  little  friends,  the  flowers. 

In  the  tender  Southern  Autumn, 

My  fond  heart  feels  the  same; 
I  know  the  woods  are  burning 

With  rare,  exquisite  flame. 
The  wondrous,  brilliant  torches, 

Of  shining  golden  rod, 
Light  up  wild  ways,  through  dreamy  haze, 

For  the  little  maid  and  God. 

But  last  night,  in  the  silence, 

A  something,  white  and  chill, 
Came  and  sighed  at  my  window: 

"I  have  been  on  the  churchyard  hill." 
I  started  up  on  my  pillow, 

I  shook  in  a  storm  of  woe ; 
I  gave  her  to  God  and  the  flowers 

And  not  to  the  night  and  the  snow. 

Oh,  baby!     Poor  little  baby! 

Chained  to  the  churchyard  hill; 
Come  back;  come  back  to  your  mother! 

Her  heart  can  shelter  you  still! 


MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE  41 

There  was  only  a  sobbing  silence, 

Bitterly  soft  and  low; 
I  felt  for  God  in  the  darkness, 

But  found  the  night  and  the  snow. 


A  Woman 

I'VE  had  his  dark  eyes,  overbrimmed  with  light, 

Fall  on  my  face, 
Stay  scarce  a  moment  then  indifferent  go, 

Adrift  in  space; 
I've  had  the  blood  like  myriad  hot  tongued  flames 

To  my  cheeks  dart, 
Before  his  eyes'  cold  brilliancy, — but  that, — 

That  did  not  break  my  heart. 

I  've  known  the  bitterness  that  I  to  him 

Was  simply  naught; 
My  love  and  I  had  never  entered 

His  slightest  thought. 
I've  seen  him  careless  meet  me  in  the  crowd, 

And  careless  part — 
And  though  I  paled  in  anguish, — yet,  I  lived, — 

That  did  not  break  my  heart. 

I  stood  one  evening  when  the  burning  lights 

Flooded  the  west; 
A  lovely  woman  by  me  leaned, 

A  rose  lay  on  her  breast. 


42  MARGARET  HUNT  BRISBANE 

He  paused  in  passing  as  his  eye  met  hers, 

I  saw  him  start, 
Turn  to  her  with  one  look — one  look — but  that, — 

That  broke  my  heart. 


JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN  43 


JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN 

Mrs.  Cappleman  is  a  native  of  Kentucky.  For  the  last  few 
years  she  has  made  her  home  in  Little  Bock,  Ark.,  but  for 
many  years  she  lived  at  Okolona,  Miss.  While  her  home  was 
in  this  state  she  was  prominent  in  the  work  of  the  United 
Daughters  of  the  Confederacy,  and  was  active  in  the  State 
Federation  of  Women 's  Clubs,  also  doing  much  literary  work 
during  her  residence  in  Mississippi.  She  has  published  only 
one  volume  of  poems,  "Heart  Songs. " 

Where  Do  the  Kisses  Grow? 

THEY  leap  from  the  soul  of  a  baby 

And  then  all  over  it  spread, 
From  the  white  and  pink  of  the  toe-tips 

To  the  halo  of  gold  on  its  head ; 
From  the  depths  of  its  dainty  dimples, 

From  the  roseate,  laughter-turned  lips, 
From  the  soft,  shapely  neck  and  shoulders 

To  the  tapering  finger-tips. 

They're  hidden  within  every  heart-fold, 

And  cuddled  down  close  to  the  core, 
And  tho'  they  are  evermore  gathered, 

Still,  I  find  there  a  thousand-fold  more; 
And  each  one  seems  softer  and  sweeter 

Than  the  one  I  found  just  before, 
Till  I  wonder  if  ever  the  sweetest 

Is  taken  from  baby's  vast  store. 


44  JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN 

So  daily  I  search  for  and  seize  them, 

And  hourly  I  pluck  a  new  prize, 
Sometimes  from  the  whitest  of  foreheads, 

Sometimes  from  the  brightest  of  eyes; 
Of  all  the  rare  sweets  sent  from  heaven, 

These  kisses,  to  me,  are  most  sweet; 
A  blessing  they  bring  to  my  being 

As  the  holiest  emotions  there  meet. 

And  I  whisper:  "0  angel-kissed  baby, 

Do  you  feel, — can  you  ever  quite  know 
Of  the  wondrous  worth  of  these  kisses 

That  ever  continue  to  grow? 
Of  the  wearisome  woes  that  they  soften, 

Of  the  heart-cares  they  curtain  from  sight, 
Of  their  magic  that  soars  through  the  sunshine 

And  on  through  the  knells  of  the  night?" 

I  hold  that  we're  higher  and  better 

For  every  fresh  kiss  that  we  take, 
For  every  fond  love-token  given, — 

When  given  for  sacred  love's  sake; 
For,  if  purity's  planted  in  Earthdom, 

Then  surely  it  springs  from  the  soul 
Of  that  beautiful,  angel-like  being 

As  its  life-page  begins  to  unroll. 

Then  I'll  gather  them  early  and  often, 
From  the  bright,  curly  head  to  the  toe, 

I  can't  rob  the  wee  tot  of  its  treasures, 
For  still  they  continue  to  grow. 


JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN  45 

And  in  long  after-years  fondest  memory 

E'en  backward  forever  will  flow 
To  that  bonny-eyed  babe  of  the  bygone, 

Whose  kisses  no  longer  may  grow. 


The  Dreams  of  a  Vanished  Day 

A  BUNCH  of  letters,  a  broken  flower 
All  yellow 'd  and  blurr 'd  and  dim, 
A  wisp  of  hair  in  its  wrappings  there, 

And  a  priceless  poem  from  him: 
Just  these  were  the  keys  that  unclosed  the  screen 
From  the  fane  of  the  Far  Away, 
And  waked  with  a  start 
The  sealed,  silent  heart, 
To  the  dream  of  a  vanished  day. 

Long,  long  was  their  sleep,   and  longer  had  slept 

Adown  in  that  dreamless  abyss, 
Save  Chance   opened  wide   the  vast  time-divide 

And  brought  back  the  youth-days  and  this, 
And  the  little  dead  rose  that  once  was  so  white, 
"With  its  myriad  companions  and  more, 
Breathed  of  joy-years  to  be, 
Of  Fate's  fondest  decree, 
And  buoyant  life-messages  bore. 

Are  you  looking  with  me  on  the  rose-trailing  Past, 
All  splashed  with  its  crimson  and  gold; 

While  the  same  shining  dreams,  in  a  measure  fulfilled, 
Do  you  not,  in  the  present,  behold? 


46  JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN 

It  seems  the  faint  odor  that  fitfully  floats 
From  the  jonquil,  the  jasmine  and  rose, 

Tells  the  tale  of  year-tides, 

Rise,  fall,  and  divides, 
Far  better  than  tongue  can  disclose. 

Aye,  each  has  a  dream-drawer  somewhere  concealed, 

With  cover  and  close-guarded  key, 
And,  oh,  for  the  loves  and  the  losses  therein, 

And  the  wraiths  of  Eeality! 

And  some  bring  a  smile,  as  of  sanction,  when  seen 
By  the  child,   on  the  mother-love  face; 
And  the  rose-pictures  rare 
Of  some  still  are  there, 
While  the  heart-hurt  of  some  leaves  its  trace. 

0  dreamers  of  dreams,  do  you  often  unlock 

The  casket  that  palls  the  pale  dead, — 
Ambitions,  gem-set,  and  gold-arched  aims, 

And  the  purposeful  plans  far  ahead? 
Perchance   you   have   found   what   I'm   finding  to- 
night,— 

Dead  roses  and  dreams  in  decay; 
Yet  action  and  deed 
Have  arisen  at  need 
From  the  dreams  of  a  vanished  day. 

So,  I  hold  the  first  Fancies  and  Phantoms  we  hoard 

Are  firm, — as  the  fair-coraled  isle 
'Neath  the  tropical  glow  of  the  sun-surging  sea; 

Are  the  breakers  we  build  on  the  while. 


JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN  47 

And  far  thro'  the  stretch  of  the  soul-seething  years, 
Thro'  the  hapless  heart- tempests  of  Time, 

We  break  and  we  build, 

With  the  lapses  infilled 
By  triumphs  that  touch  the  sublime. 

Then  never  a  dream,  since  the  rose-dream  of  Morn, 

With  its  brilliance  and  beauty  and  bloom, 
But  whole,  or  in  part,  presaged  the  pale  start, 
Where  the  great  life  achievements  now  loom. 
So  I  treasure  the  letters  and  little  dead  rose, 
With  their  thousands  of  thoughts  laid  away; 
Thro'  the  long  interim 
Float  the  shadows  dim 
Of  the  dreams  of  a  vanished  day. 


48       MARCUS  T.  CARPENTER 


MARCUS  T.  CARPENTER 

Marcus  T.  Carpenter  was  a  native  of  New  York  state,  but 
made  his  home  at  Jackson,  Miss.,  where  he  was  connected  with 
a  newspaper.  While  living  in  that  city  he  published  (1850) 
his  only  volume  of  poems,  "Memories  of  the  Past." 


On  the  Return  of  the  Mississippi  Volunteers 

THRICE  welcome  to  your  home  again, 

Ye  men  of  iron  nerve ! 
For  ye  have  proved  your  faith  like  men 

Who  would  their  country  serve; 
With  fearless  hearts,  at  Monterey, 

Ye  charged  upon  the  foe, 
And  tower  and  battlement  gave  way 

At  every  freeman's  blow. 

Ye  heeded  not  the  old  grim  walls 

That  frowned  above  you  there, 
Nor  deadly  showers  of  hissing  balls 

That  filled  the  smoky  air; 
Our  country's  flag  ye  onward  bore, 

Through, all  the  bloody  fray, 
Until  it  waved  in  triumph  o'er 

The  heights  of  Monterey. 


MARCUS  T.  CARPENTER  49 

On  Buena  Vista's  awful  field, 

Ye  did  what  men  may  do, 
With  hearts  that  know  not  how  to  yield, 

With  weapons  tried  and  true; 
And,  oh,  how  swelled  our  hearts  with  pride, 

When  news  came  from  afar, 
How  ye  had  stemmed  the  battle's  tide, 

On  that  great  day  of  war! 

And  now,  with  one  united  voice, 

All  welcome  your  return, 
And  o'er  your  glorious  deeds  rejoice, 

Whose  lights  will  cease  to  burn 
When  freedom's  altars  are  no  more, — 

Her  temples  pass  away, 
And  when  her  spirit  flees  before 

Corruption  and  decay. 

But  one  short  year  has  roll'd  along, 

Since  your  chivalric  band 
Left  peace  and  home  in  valor  strong, 

For  far-off  foeman's  land; 
Your  ranks,  so  thin  and  meager  now, 

Speak  more  than  words  may  tell, 
And  cast  a  gloom  o'er  every  brow 

For  patriot  ones  who  fell. 

And  with  the  shouts  which  now  arise 

To  welcome  you  again, 
Are  mingled  low  and  stifled  sighs, 

For  those  in  battle  slain; 


50 MARCUS  T.  CARPENTER 

Our  eyes  are  dimmed  with  sorrowing  tears, 

For  all  who  nobly  bled; 
But  their  names  will  be  through  coming  years 

Among  the  glorious  dead. 


Spring 

THE  spring  is  here  again, 
And,  over  hill  and  plain, 

She  hath  flung 
The  magic  of  her  smile, 
And  the  world  looks  glad  the  while, 

As  when  young: 

And  hearts,  long  worn  with  care, 
That  heavy  burdens  bear 

Towards   the   tomb, 
Are  now  as  light  and  free 
As  they  were  wont  to  be, 

In  life's  bloom. 

But  ere  another  comes, 

The  hearthstones  of  their  homes 

May  be  left 

Sad,  desolate,  and  cold, — 
Of  their  cheerfulness  of  old 

All  bereft. 

For  myriad  years  gone  by, 
With  as  bright  and  pure  a  sky, 
Hath  the  Spring 


MARCUS  T.  CARPENTER 51 

Succeeded  to  the  blast 
Of  winter, — binding  fast 
Everything. 

For  myriad  ages  yet, 
Will  she  free  the  rivulet 

From  its  chains, 

And  strew  the  earth  with  flowers, 
And  fill  the  woodland  bowers 

With   sweet   strains. 

And  hearts  that  are  to  be, 
In   dim   futurity, 

Will,   like  ours, 
With  joyous  rapture  burn, 
At  her  annual  return, 

With  flowers. 

Oh!  the  Spring, — it  makes  me  sad, 
Though  everything  looks  glad, 

Round  me  here; 
For  the  future,  like  the  past, 
Will  be  borne  away  at  last, 

On  its  bier. 

Yet  I  love  the  Spring  to  come, 
Driving  winter  from  the  home, 

Where  I  dwell; 
Though  its  bursts  of  revelry 
Of  passing  time  to  me 

Sound  the  knell. 


52     BETTIE  KEYES  CHAMBERS 


BETTIE  KEYES  CHAMBERS 

Mrs.  Chambers  is  a  native  of  Alabama,  but  after  the  Civil 
War  she  made  her  home  in  Mississippi,  later  removing  to  Cali- 
fornia. In  1912  her  volume  of  poems,  " Idyls  of  the  South," 
was  published  by  The  Neale  Publishing  Company,  New  York. 


A  Fancy 

A  BRIGHT  mantle  of  crimson  and  gold 

And  purple  hung  low  in  the  west ; 
It  was  waiting  the  day  to  enfold 

That  soon  would  be  sinking  to  rest. 
The  sun  was  still  lingering  awhile 

In  love  with  both  woodland  and  sea, 
While  the  earth,  blushing  warm  in  his  smile, 

Seemed  fairer  than  ever  to  be. 

And  a  rose-tree  in  beauty  and  bloom 

Its  blossoms  had  lavishly  spread, — 
They  were  shedding  their  sweetest  perfume 

And  wealth  o'er  a  maiden's  fair  head; 
While,  just  touching  her  innocent  face 

Half-opened,  some  bright  buds  reclined, — 
Did  they  droop,  that  their  loveliest  grace, 

Was  gathered  from  that  they  entwined? 


BETTIE  KEYES  CHAMBERS  53 

Like  a  Parsean  priestess  at  prayer, 

She  watched  the  light  fade  in  the  skies ; 
And  the  glow  of  idolatry  there 

Shone  bright  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 
"He  will  come,"  she  was  murmuring  low, 

"Though  shadows  grow  gloomy  and  tall. 
He  is  true  as  the  sunlight,  I  know; 

He  will  come.     He  will  come,  after  all." 

But  the  night  brought  her  quivering  fears; 

And  doubt,  with  its  dagger-like  smart, 
Like  a  shadow  fell  over  her  years 

And  crushed  out  the  faith  in  her  heart. 
Then  she  knew  her  idolatrous  trust 

Had  passed  with  the  evening's  light, 
That  it  evermore,  moldering,  must 

Lay  shrouded  in  darkness  of  night. 

Then  the  morning  saw  roses  in  tears, 

That  yesterday  blossomed  so  bright; 
Arid  as  time  flings  to  mortals  its  years, 

The  roses  still  weep  in  the  night 
For  the  remnant  of  Paradise  gone, 

Which  passed  with  the  loss  of  man's  truth, — 
And  the  doubt  and  the  agony  born, 

From  death  to  the  hope  of  our  youth. 


54  J.  F.  H.  CLAIBORNE 


J.  F.  H.  CLAIBORNE 

"The  Historian  of  Mississippi77  is  little  known  as  a  poet, 
yet  he  wrote  many  poems,  though  these  poems  have  never  been 
published  in  book  form.  Colonel  Claiborne's  literary  work  was 
almost  altogether  along  historical  lines.  He  was  born  in  Adams 
county  in  1807,  and  died  in  that  county  in  1884.  For  many 
years  he  was  prominent  in  the  politics  of  the  state ;  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Legislature  and  also  a  member  of  Congress,  and 
edited  newspapers  in  both  Mississippi  and  Louisiana.  His  pub- 
lished works  in  permanent  form  are :  '  '  Life  and  Times  of  Sam 
Dale/7  "Life  and  Correspondence  of  John  A.  Quitman,"  and 
"Mississippi  as  a  Province,  Territory,  and  State. " 


The  Maid  of  Pascagoula 

WHILE  others  boast  their  eyes  of  blue, 
Their  locks  of  gold  or  raven  hue, 
Be  mine  to  praise  with  modest  lays 

The  Maid  of  Pascagoula! 
Her  speaking  face,  her  snowy  arms, 
The  tout  ensemble  of  her  charms, 
Her  grace  and  majesty  of  mien, — 
So  fair,  so  beautiful! — they  seem 
Not  mortal,  but  an  angel's  dream, 

My  maid  of  Pascagoula! 

Let  others  gaze  on  passers-by, 
For  every  beauty  breathe  a  sigh; 


J.  F.  H.  CLAIBORNE 55 

My  eye  is  turned,  my  heart  is  given, 
With  all  the  truth  and  faith  of  heaven, 
In  bonds  that  only  death  can  sever, 
My  maid  of  Pascagoula! 

She  may  be  thine  and  never  mine, 

This  maid  of  Pascagoula ! 
Where'er  I  roam  by  land  or  sea, 
I  still  shall  love  and  none  but  thee, 

Sweet  maid  of  Pascagoula! 
I  breathe  her  name,  I  feel  the  flame, 
Thro'  all  life's  changes  still  the  same, 
A  pang  which  silent  tears  my  breast, 
Come  weal  or  woe;  life's  direst  curse, 
Of  Fortune's  blows  the  very  worst, 
Or  tortured  seek  some  lonely  grave, 

Maid  of  Pascagoula! 

Mine  is  a  flame  may  not  be  known, 
A  wretchedness  I  dare  not  own; 
Deep  in  my  heart  the  secret  lies, 
But  thou  canst  read  it  in  my  eyes, 
Dear  Maid  of  Pascagoula! 


56  MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 


MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 

Mrs.  Dimitry,  the  daughter  of  Justice  Cotesworth  P.  Smith, 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Mississippi,  is  now  a  resident  of  Innis, 
Louisiana.  She  was  educated  at  the  College  of  Notre  Dame,  of 
Maryland,  at  Baltimore,  and  in  1880-1881  was  editor  of  The 
New  Idea,  at  Jackson,  Mississippi. 


Cupid  and  Psyche 

BUTTERFLY  poised  on  thy  golden  wing, 
Child  of  the  Springtime's  Sun! 

Knowest  thou  art  but  the  fleeting  type, 
Of  a  fairer,  brighter  one? 

Of  one  in  the  olden,  golden  days, 
Who  lived  to  be  loved  and  to  love, 

And  who  drew  by  her  beauty,  and  wonderful 

smile, 
The  fairest  of  Gods  from  above. 

He  bore  her  to  realms  in  the  far  off  skies, 
He  crowned  her  with  stars,  bright  stars, 

The  rainbows  of  Heaven  her  jewels  were, 
The  clouds  of  the  sunset  her  cars. 


MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 57 

But  doubt  came  into  this  Heaven  of  love, 
And  she  fell  from  her  high  estate, 

And  wearily  wandered  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Bitterly  mourning  her  fate. 

Till  Cupid  his  Psyche  forgiving  for  aye, 

Loved  as  he  loved  of  yore, 

And  they  dwell   'mid  the  stars,  in  the  beauti- 
ful sky, 
And  will  live,  and  will  love  evermore. 


Wilt  Thou  Return? 

IT  is  the  magic  time,  the  mystic  hour, 

When  the  day,  wearied  by  her  golden  flight, 
Droops  her  bright  head,  like  some  dew-laden  flower, 
And   sighs   for   rest.     Star  inwrought,   thy  spirit 

of  soft  light, 

The  evening  herald  of  the  approach  of  night, 
Walks  o'er  the  Western  wave.    The  moon  is  up, 
And,  with  a  soft  and  tender  grace,  reigns  o'er  high 

heaven ; 
One  lonely  star,  trembling  with  timid  awe,  is  by  her 

side, 

Its  soft  shame  adding  but  another  charm  of  beauty 
in  her  pride. 

The  shadows  lengthen  o'er  the  distant  sea, 
Flushes  the  west  with  rosy  fleeting  beams 

That  came  before  the  parting  day  glides  to  eternity. 
It  scarce  is  night,  tho'  Jove  in  beauty  streams; 


58  MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 

Those  soft  alluring  charms  of  dark-eyed  nights, 
Mingling  with  day's  far  merrier  delights, 
Till  this  dim  vale  on  this  bright  even 
" Seems  less  of  earth  than  does  of  heaven." 


A  silence  such  as  settles  o'er  the  heart 

"When  some  deep  thought  holds  us  in  thrall, 
And  pausing  spellbound,  strange,  wild  feelings  start 
Into  existence.    A  breathless  pause,  such  as  call 
The    angel   natures   from   our    stirred   souls   and 

tempt  them  to  their  fall, 
Broods  over  all.     From  yon  high  mountain  flows  the 

gliding  stream, 
Under  the  Banyan's  sacred  shade,  where  bloom  young 

flowers, 

The  sweet  spell  lingereth  yet,  and,  lingering,  seems 
As  still  as  death,  as  lovely  and  as  fleeting  as  our 
dreams. 


But  hark! — dost  thou  not  hear  a  soft  step  fall  upon 

the  dreamy  scene? 
The    flowers    lift    up    their    heads,    the    cloudlets 

bright 
Take   on   a   softer  tint.     She   comes,    the   star-eyed 

queen, 
The  shadow  of  a  golden  dream;  a  perfect  being 

robed  in  light 
Of  her  own  loveliness.     'Tis  Hilda,  fairest  daughter 

of  the  sun; 


MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 59 

Of  all  the  East;  nay,  of  all  the  world,  most  lovely 

and  loveliest  one. 

Her  form  is  beauty's  own;  her  gentle  heart 
Is  like  the  lute  that  love  has  learned  to  play, 
Making  sweet  music  all  the  livelong  day. 

But  now  her  dark  eyes  dreaming  woe, 

Her  cheeks  as  pale  as  flowers  that  blow, 

Ere  winter's  breath  has  gone, 

Bespeak  a  heart  where  joy  is  dead, 

A  soul  whose  brightest  dreams  have  fled. 

0  youth !  0  hope !  0  fleeting  hours ! 

All,  all  are  fragile,  fading  flowers. 

A  look  too  long,  or  a  word  too  much, 

An  idle  thought  or  a  careless  touch, 

And  the  joy  we  have  held  to  our  hearts  to-day 

Has  withered  and  died  and  passed  away. 

So,  in  gentle  Hilda's  breast, 

There  dwells  a  vague  and  sad  unrest. 

But  yestereve  she  roamed  this  dell, 

With  one  beloved  and  loving  well. 

Too  well,  alas!  for  joy  to  stay 

When  her  soul's  idol's  far  away. 

Last  eve  he  lingered  by  her  side; 

To-night  the  sea's  bright,  treacherous  tide 

Bears  him  away. 

Like  some  neglected  and  forsaken  lute, 

Its  chords  unstrung,  its  sweetest  music  mute, 

The  hand  whose  touch  could  bid  all  sorrow  fly, 

No  more  is  near:  'twere  happiness  to  die. 


6o MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 

Sighing,  she  wanders  on  to  where  he  stood, 
Beside  this  stream,  beneath  this  spreading  wood; 
Here,  where  he  breathed  his  last  fond,  sad  farewell, 
She's  come  to  ask  by  magic  charm  or  spell: 
"Wilt  thou  return ?" 

Bearing  within  her  trembling  hands, 
Here  to  the  bank  of  this  great  river, 

That,  flowing  o'er  its  golden  sands, 
Buns  onward  to  the  sea  forever, 

A  soft-hued  shell,  a  trembling  light, 

Wreathed  round  with  flowers  as  fair  and  bright 

As  thoughts  and  prayers  that  hover  over 

The  distant  path  of  her  dear  lover. 

She  kneels,  and  with  her  soft,  dark  eyes 

Raised  suppliant  to  the  far-off  skies, 

Like  some  bright,  sainted  spirit  of  even, 

Commits  her  fondest  hopes  to  heaven ; 

To  try  by  this,  the  Hindoo's  spell, 

Whether  the  one  she  loves  so  well 

Will  come  from  the  land  of  the  setting  sun, 

Back  to  the  home  of  his  cherished  one. 

Blow  softly,  all  ye  winds  of  even, 

Ye  stars  that  with  your  mellow  light 
Shine  like  the  beacons  of  kind  heaven, 

Oh,  guide  her  bark  o  'er  the  waters  bright ! 
It  glides  along  to  the  night-birds'  song; 

The  golden  waves  embrace  it; 
By  the  track  of  light,  in  its  wake  so  bright, 

Her  timid  eyes  can  trace  it. 


MAUD  L.  S.  DIMITRY 61 

The  blue  waves  dance  'neath  the  chaste  moon 's  glance, 

The  stars  on  their  far  thrones  burn, 
Faltering,  she  stands,  her  trembling  hands 

Clasped  o'er  her  heart's  wild  beating, 
Watching  the  shell  as,  with  rise  and  swell, 

It  sails  o'er  the  waves  retreating. 
One  moment's  doubt,  then  joy!  then  bliss! 

Her  lord,  her  lover  returneth, 
For  as  long  as  her  sight  can  track  the  light, 

The  glimmering  lamp  still  burneth. 
And  she  sighs  as  of  yore,  to  her  glad  heart  o'er, 

"My  love,  my  life,  will  return !" 

Each  soul  hath  a  hope,  each  life  hath  a  star, 

Like  this  Hindoo  maid  of  yore, 

That  we  wreath  with  flowers  from  our  heart's  fair 
bowers, 

And  murmur  soft  prayers  o'er. 
A  bark  whose  fate  we  long  to  know ; 

That  we  watch  from  the  golden  strand, 
With  tears  that  start  from  a  beating  heart, 

Set  sail  for  a  far-off  land. 
Would  you  know  the  prayer  of  my  soul  to-night? 

It  is  that  the  coming  hours 
May  bring  your  bark  from  the  distant  seas, 

Piled  high  with  blushing  flowers. 


62  LOUISE  ELEMJAY 


LOUISE  ELEMJAY 

Miss  Elemjay,  the  author  of  "Censoria  Lictoria  of  Facts  and 
Folks, "  "Kising  Young  Men  and  Other  Tales,"  and  "Letters 
and  Miscellanies,"  is  credited  to  Virginia  by  Mr.  Davidson,  in 
his  ' '  Living  Writers  of  the  South. ' '  However,  she  spent  much 
time  in  Mississippi,  and  in  her  "Letters  and  Miscellanies" 
will  be  found  considerable  matter  in  reference  to  this  state. 
Her  home  was  in  Madison  county.  Miss  Elemjay  was  an  in- 
valid, unable  to  walk. 

"They  May  Deem  'Tis  the  Love  of  Another" 

THEY  may  deem  'tis  the  love  of  another 

Wakes  the  tear  that  is  falling  from  me; 
But  my  heart's  "one  love,"  0  my  brother! 

Was  given,  in  life's  dawning,  to  thee! 

Its  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  soul 

No  other  love  had  power  to  cast; 
For  thou  wert  to  existence's  goal 

My  guiding  star  through  all  the  past. 

In  thy  grave  there  have  perished 

The  glad  tones  of  my  mirth, 

And  the  hopes  I  had  cherished 

From  the  hour  of  thy  birth. 

Proudly  thy  image  rose  before  me; 

But  life  is  dim  since  thou  art  gone, 
And  one,  in  thought,  is  bending  o'er  thee, 

Who  mourns  that  morning  vision  flown! 


LOUISE   ELEMJAY  63 

Light  smile  and  careless  jest  may  seem 

A  lighter  spirit's  echoing  tone; 

But,  0  my  soul!  thy  wandering  dream 
Is  not  of  earth, — to  thee  'tis  lone ! 

Yes,  "the  last  link  is  broken" 

That  could  bind  me  to  earth; 

For  the  death  dirge  is  spoken 

O'er  thy  genius  and  worth. 


64  A.  H.  ELLETT 


A.  H.  ELLETT 

This  author  was  for  many  years  a  leading  teacher  in  Missis- 
sippi, and  at  the  time  of  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1913,  was 
connected  with  Blue  Mountain  College.  He  wrote  "The  Fed- 
eral Union  and  Mississippi, ' '  "Outlines  of  U.  S.  History/' 
"Outlines  of  Mississippi  History, "  and  many  poems,  which 
since  his  death  have  been  published  in  book  form,  under  the 
title  "Ellett's  Poems. " 

Faith 

As  I  lead  my  baby  home 
'Neath  the  silent  stars  of  night, 
With  her  little  hand  in  mine, 
Silently  I  clasp  it  tight 
And  I  pray: 

"Father,  when  my  way  is  dark, 
E  'en  the  star  of  hope  is  lost, 

As  the  clouds  of  sin  o'ercast, 
And  my  bark  is  tempest  tossed, 
Show  the  way. 

"As  my  little  one  with  faith, 
Doubting  not,  relies  on  me, 

So  I  may  with  willing  heart 
Gladly  put  my  trust  in  thee, 
Till  at  last, 


A.  H.  ELLETT  65 

"  When  my  ship  has  gained  the  shore, 
And  I've  come  to  sleep  awhile, 

I  may  slumber  sweet  as  she, 
Saying,  with  a  trusting  smile : 
'  Toil  is  past!'" 


66  ISRAEL  FOLSOM 


ISRAEL  FOLSOM 

This  minister  was  a  Choctaw  Indian.  An  interesting  sketch 
of  the  Folsom  family  of  Indians  may  be  found  in  Cushman's 
"History  of  the  Choctaw,  Chickasaw  and  Natchez  Indians," 
published  in  1899.  The  quaint  selection  that  appears  below, — 
a  poem  that  was  written  just  before  the  Indians  were  removed 
from  Mississippi  to  the  Indian  Territory, — is  from  that  volume. 


The  Indian's  Song 

Their  lands  had  been  promised  to  the  Choctaws  "as  long  as 
water  should  run  and  grass  should  grow." 

LAND  where  brightest  waters  flow, 
Land  where  loveliest  forests  grow, 
Where  warriors  drew  the  bow, 
Native  land,  farewell! 

He  who  made  yon  stream  and  tree, 
Made  the  White,  the  Red  man  free ; 
Gave  the  Indian's  home  to  be 
'Mid  the  forest's  wilds. 

Have  the  waters  ceased  to  flow? 
Have  the  forests  ceased  to  grow? 
Why  do  our  brothers  bid  us  go 
From  our  native  home? 


ISRAEL  FOLSOM 67^ 

Here  in  infancy  we  played, 
Here  our  happy  wigwams  made, 
Here  our  fathers'  bones  are  laid — 
Must  we  leave  them  all? 

White  men  tell  us  God's  on  high, 
So  pure  and  bright  in  yonder  sky, — 
Will  not  then  His  searching  eye 
See  the  Indian's  wrong? 


68  VIRGINIA  FRANTZ 


VIRGINIA  FRANTZ 

Mrs.  Frantz  was  long  a  resident  of  Brandon,  Miss.,  and  for 
many  years  was  connected  with  the  press  of  the  state.  Her 
published  book,  "Ina  Greenwood  and  Other  Poems,"  made 
its  appearance  in  1885.  The  volume  does  not,  however,  contain 
all  her  verses.  She  contributed  many  poems  to  the  papers  of 
the  state. 

Hungry  Hearts 

Is  there  no  hunger  on  this  earth, 
Save  that  in  want  of  bread  has  birth  ? 
And  only  lurketh  famine  where 
Walks  Poverty,  all  gaunt  and  bare  ? 
Yes,  many  a  spirit  starves  and  dies, 
For  want  of  life's  sweet  harmonies, 
In  wealthy  mansions,  grand  and  fair, 
"With  sumptuous  viands  rich  and  rare. 

How  many  starving  hearts  do  hide 
Beneath  the  silken  folds  of  pride; 
And  bosoms  bright  with  gems  and  gold, 
For  want  of  loving  faith,  grow  cold : 
Yes,  hearts  so  starved  all  wealth  would  give 
For  crumbs  of  love  on  which  to  live ; 
Yes,  with  all  earthly  treasure  part 
For  balm  to  soothe  the  aching  heart. 


VIRGINIA  FRANTZ  69 

Why  must  hearts  ache?    They  cannot  buy 
The  food  for  which  they  pine  and  die ; 
And  yet,  so  very  small's  the  cost, 
That  he  who  gives  hath  nothing  lost. 
What  brings  to  life  so  much  sure  blessing, 
As  low,  sweet  tones,  and  love's  caressing? 
By  what,  as  by  a  gentle  word, 
Is  all  the  heart's  deep  music  stirred? 

All  ye  who  do  the  bodies  feed, 
Of  hungry,  starving  hearts,  take  heed, 
And  scatter  crumbs  of  sympathy 
For  every  lonely  one  you  see. 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread," 
Means  more  than  it  doth  seem  when  read ; 
For  all  our  wants  the  Saviour  knew, 
And  He  provided  for  them,  too. 

"Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone," 
Saith  Jesus,  who  such  love  hath  shown ; 
He  kindly  draws  us  to  His  breast, 
For  bread  of  life,  comfort,  and  rest. 
If  hungering  for  righteousness, 
Through  sin  and  sorrow  and  distress, 
We'll  find  relief  in  Jesus'  arms, 
From  all  earth's  shadows  and  alarms. 


70  J.  M.  GIBSON 


J.  M.  GIBSON 

J.  M.  Gibson,  now  a  resident  of  Houston,  Tex.,  was  born 
in  Warren  county  in  1856.  He  did  not  attend  college,  but 
studied  law  in  St.  Louis,  returning  later  to  his  native  state, 
and  beginning  the  practice  of  law  at  Vicksburg.  He  served 
two  terms  in  the  Legislature,  and  in  1887  was  elected  District 
Attorney,  which  office  he  held  for  four  years.  While  he  has 
written  much,  in  both  prose  and  verse,  his  poems  have  not  yet 
been  issued  in  book  form. 

The  Violets 

EIFTS  of  April  here  and  there,  where  the  frost  has 
lost  its  hold, 

Where  the  sparkling  little  stream  sings  into  the  som- 
ber wold, 

Only  here  a  spot  of  green  where  wild  violets  unfold. 

Not  as  yet  a  threstle's  song,  not  the  wooing  note  of 

dove, 
Not  as  yet  the  blackbird's  call  singing  from  the  boughs 

above, 
Not  an  oriole,  or  finch,  warbling  softly  to  his  love. 

Tender,  modest  violets,   long  before  the  Spring  is 

near, 
Bringing  back   with   gentle   beauty   mem  Vies   of   a 

yesteryear, 
Bringing  back  with  lips  of  purple,  words  of  music 

spoken  here. 


J.  M.  GIBSON  71 


Violets,  as  now  you  seemed  while  as  from  a  censer 

swung 
Floating  up  your  fragrance  sweet,  where  no  mockbird 

mocking  sung, 
And  no  harsh  foreboding  note  croaked  from  any  raven 

tongue. 

Ah,  your  perfume  brings  me  now  memories  of  sweeter 

things ; 
And  within  my  heart  of  hearts  love  its  unseen  censer 

swings, 
And  my  soul  its  prayer  uplifts  to  a  face  fair  as  the 

Spring's. 

Soft  the  cascade 's  music  spoke  down  in  yonder  lovely 
dell,— 

Soft  those  limpid  eyes  of  blue  where  a  soul's  bright 
shadow  fell, — 

Sweet  the  violets  gathered  there,  pulsing  on  her  bos- 
om's swell. 

Fair  the  hair  upon  her  brow,  plump  the  arms  around 

my  neck, 
Fair  the  cheeks  with  sunset's  kiss,  beauty  without 

flaw  or  fleck, — 
God,  that  thou  shouldst  give  me  these  and  that  these 

my  life  should  wreck! 

Red  the  lips  to  mine  upturned,  long  and  sweet  the 

rapturing  kiss, 
Tender  heart  that  wildly  beat  back  to  mine  the  surge 

of  bliss, 
God!  is  there  a  joy  above  like  the  memory  of  this? 


72  J.  M.  GIBSON 


Not  a  word  was  needed  then,  there  are  languages  un- 
heard,— 

Understood  from  heart  to  heart  both  to  man  and 
beast  and  bird, 

That  are  eloquent  and  sweet  without  any  wistful 
word. 

What  have  hearts  to  do  with  words,  when  young  lips 

to  lips  repeat 
Burning  messages  of  fire  thrilling  one  from  head  to 

feet! 
All  the  world  is  but  a  sigh  then,  and  all  the  world  is 

sweet. 

Eif ts  of  April  in  the  sky ;  fresh  and  pure  the  morning 
air; 

Lonely  wanderer  in  the  wold,  lonely  grave  in  wood- 
land bare; — 

And  the  violets  bloom  again  and  a  heart  grieves  with 
despair. 


JAMES  GORDON  73 


JAMES  GORDON 

Colonel  Gordon  was  born  in  Monroe  county  in  1833,  and  died 
in  CMckasaw  county  in  1915.  He  was  graduated  from  the 
State  University.  He  was  a  participant  in  many  battles  of  the 
Civil  War,  rising  to  the  rank  of  colonel  in  the  Confederate 
Army.  Colonel  Gordon  was  prominent  in  state  politics,  and 
served  several  terms  in  the  Legislature.  In  1910  he  was  ap- 
pointed United  States  Senator,  to  serve  an  unexpired  term.  A 
volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1909,  under  the  title 
"The  Old  Plantation  and  Other  Poems. "  l ' Lochinvar ' '  was 
the  name  of  his  country  home. 

Lochinvar 

OLD  Lochinvar,  Old  Lochinvar, 
Thou  dearest  spot  on  earth  to  me, 

Tho'  I  may  roam  in  lands  afar, 
My  heart  will  fondly  turn  to  thee. 

Old  Lochinvar,  loved  are  thy  hills, 
Thy  fields  and  meadows  ever  dear; 

Dear  to  my  heart  thy  sparkling  rills, 
Thy  gushing  fountains  bright  and  clear. 

Oh !  for  a  sigh  from  Lochinvar 
I've  sighed  when  in  a  prison  cell; 

A  Lethe  to  the  prison  bar, 
Would  be  a  draft  from  thy  sweet  well. 


74 JAMES  GORDON 

Old  Lochinvar,  sweet  are  the  flowers 
%      That  cluster  'round  thy  walls  so  gay, 
There  I  have  played  in  childhood 's  hours, 
And  dreamed  my  boyhood  years  away. 

Old  Lochinvar,  Old  Lochinvar, 

Thy  song-birds  sing  the  sweetest  lay ; 

Never  shone  sun  or  moon  or  star 
Elsewhere  with  half  so  bright  a  ray. 

Old  Lochinvar,  Old  Lochinvar, 

Long  may  thy  tall  oaks  o  'er  me  wave, 

And  may  the  smiling  vesper  star 

Peep  through  thy  shadows  on  my  grave. 


MARY  A.  GREER          75 


MARY  A.  GREER 

In  the  second  volume  of  "A  Memoir  of  Jefferson  Davis/' 
by  his  widow,  Mrs.  Davis  refers,  with  approval,  to  the  follow- 
ing lines,  by  "Mrs.  Mary  A.  Greer  of  Mississippi, ' ;  as  " ex- 
plaining the  causes  of  failure "  of  Mr.  Davis. 


Why  Jefferson  Davis  Failed 

HE  failed  because  he  was  so  great ;  his  duty 
Lay  in  Presidency,  not  Dictatorship. 
And  he  was  one  that  would  not  enter  Paradise 
By  treachery,  fraud,  and  usurpation. 
He  held  his  lightest  promise  as  a  sacred  thing, 
How  much  more  his  oath  of  office  sworn. 
The  law  had  circumscribed  and  set  his  bounds, 
The  law  he'd  sworn  to  keep  he  would  not  break. 
He  had  within  him  strength  to  cope  with  all 
The  fearful  issues  of  the  time,  the  stern  volition, 
Steadfast  purpose,  and  the  ceaseless  watch ; 
Strength  to  gather  up  the  scattered  slender  means, 
To  bind,  to  weld,  to  rivet  firm  in  one, 
And  name  the  force  so  formed  "Success." 
All  this  within  him  lay,  but  power  to  do 
This  was  withheld,  and  power  not  freely 
Given  he  scorned  to  rudely  seize. 
Patient  sorrowing,  much  enduring  soul, 


76  MARY  A.  GREEK 

God  strengthen  thee;  in  all  His  strength, 
Christ  comfort  thee;  in  all  His  love, 
Angels  tend  thee ;  in  all  thy  ways 
Nobly  thou  hast  wrought  and  overcome. 


DAVID  E.  GUYTON  77 


DAVID  E.  GUYTON 

Professor  Guyton  is  in  charge  of  the  Department  of  History 
in  Blue  Mountain  College,  Miss. 

Triolets 

WHILE  thou  art  near, 

As  now  thou  art, 
I  feel  no  fear, 
While  thou  art  near, 
That  others,  Deax, 

May  win  thy  heart, 
While  thou  art  near, 

As  now  thou  art. 

When  thou  art  far, 

As  thou  shalt  be, 
No  jealous  jar, 
When  thou  art  far, 
Shall  ever  mar 

My  faith  in  thee, 
When  thou  art  far, 

As  thou  shalt  be. 

Till  saints  deceive 

And  truth  is  trite, 
Sweet  Genevieve, 
Till  saints  deceive, 


78  DAVID  E.  GUYTON 

I  shall  believe 

And  trust  thee  quite, 

Till  saints  deceive 
And  truth  is  trite. 


Yesterday 

You  stabbed  my  soul  with  the  words  you  said, 
Though  you  meant  most  kind,  I  know. 

The  sunlight  out  of  my  soul-life  fled, 

And  my  dreams  were  dust,  and  my  hopes  were  dead, 
And  the  world  was  a  world  of  woe. 

I  had  built  us  a  castle  with  golden  spires, 

In  the  land  where  the  sirens  sing ; 
With  high  halls  jeweled  with  dream  desires, 
And  rife  with  the  music  of  rhythmic  lyres, 

Like  the  waft  of  an  angel's  wing. 

I  had  delved  us  fountains  with  dimpling  sprays, 

In  a  girdle  of  gardens  and  lawns, 
The  gladsome  haunts  of  the  fair-haired  fays 
And  the  sprites  that  sport  in  the  woodland  ways 

And  the  blythe-souled  satyrs  and  fauns. 

I  had  fashioned  a  bower  of  roses  red, 

Still  bright  with  the  shimmer  of  dew; 
With  snow-white  blossoms,  I  had  softly  spread 
A  fragrant  couch  for  the  curl-crowned  head 
And  lily-white  heart  of  you. 


DAVID  E.  GUYTON 79 

With  the  gift  of  a  Midas,  I  had  touched  with  gold 

Every  trace  of  the  base  in  your  fate ; 
I  had  framed  you  a  future  with  triumphs  untold 
And  every  delight  of  the  blythe  and  the  bold, 
Unmixed  with  the  griefs  of  the  great. 

I  had  found  you,  a  child,  in  the  valley  at  play, 

Content  with  the  charms  of  the  plain; 
I  had  plead  with  your  spirit  to  wander  away 
To  the  shimmering  heights  where  the  stout-hearted 

stay, 
But  my  words  of  entreaty  were  vain, 

For  you  stabbed  my  soul  with  the  words  you  said, 

Though  you  meant  most  kind,  I  know, 
The  sunlight  out  of  my  soul-life  fled, 
And  my  dreams  are  dust,  and  my  hopes  are  dead, 
And  the  world  is  a  world  of  woe. 


8o  LAFAYETTE  R.  HAMBERLIN 


LAFAYETTE  R.  HAMBERLIN 

Professor  Hamberlin  was  born  in  Hinds  county  in  1861,  and 
died  in  1902.  He  was  educated  at  Mississippi  College  (Clinton) 
and  at  Richmond  College,  Virginia.  After  graduation  he  was 
engaged  in  teaching,  sometimes  in  High  Schools,  sometimes  in 
Colleges.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  held  a  place  in  the 
faculty  of  Vanderbilt  University.  His  poems  have  been  pub- 
lished in  seven  collections:  "Lyrics,"  "Seven  Songs," 
"Alumni  Lilts,"  "A  Batch  of  Rhymes,"  "In  Colorado," 
"Rhymes  of  the  War,"  and  "Verses." 


She  Kissed  My  Violets 

I  STOOD  in  waiting  there  before  her, 

My  heart  athrob,  aglow; 
I  ne'er  had  told  the  love  I  bore  her, 

And  yet,  ah,  did  she  know? 

She  held  a  moment  in  her  fingers 

Some  violets  I'd  bought — 
Ah,  sometimes  Time  all  breathless  lingers 

To  view  the  scene  he's  wrought! 

A  moment  paused  she;  then,  a-seeming 

Like  one  who  half  forgets, 
Like  one  who  sighs  in  gentle  dreaming, 

She  kissed  my  violets. 


LAFAYETTE  R.  HAMBERLIN  81 

My  heart  shall  ne'er  know  joy  completer, 

However  fortune  pets, 
Than  when,  with  lips  than  roses  sweeter, 

She  kissed  my  violets. 

When  hours  are  heavy  grown  with  toiling, 

And  duty's  routine  frets, 
I  sing,  care's  teasing  fingers  foiling: 

"She  kissed  my  violets." 


The  Woman  in  the  Moon 

WITH  wax  and  wane  of  yonder  fickle  moon, 
There  comes  and  goes  a  vision  known  to  few: 
Deft  o'er  the  disc,  with  hand  and  chisel  true, 

Some  god,  whose  love  and  fancy  were  in  tune, 

Hath  carved  the  features  of  his  mistress  there. 
The  lifted  profile  speaks  a  noble  mind, 
Yet  claims,  withal,  a  woman 's  heart  there  shrined ; 

The  full,  dark  wealth  of  wondrous-gathered  hair 
Proves  woman's  glory  matching  charms  within; 
Below,  the  almost-heaving  bosom  swells 

In  shapely  fairness   'neath  the  chisel's  trace. 
And  ever,  as  that  orb  doth  fullness  win, 
Its  widening  growth  each  day  to  me  outspells 

The  bright  medallion  of  that  classic  face. 


82  LIZZIE  HAMLETT 


LIZZIE  HAMLETT 

Mrs.  Hamlett  was  born  in  Mississippi  in  1842.  She  was 
graduated  from  college  in  1860,  and  in  1876  her  volume  of 
poems  was  published.  For  many  years  she  has  lived  in  Texas, 
where  she  has  been  prominent  in  literary  work.  Her  poem 
' '  Shall  We  Divide  the  State  I ' '  is  exceedingly  popular  in  Texas. 

Maternity 

THERE  came  to  me,  'neath  holy  autumn  skies, 

A  bud,  a  tender,  glorious  germ 
From  out  the  very  walls  of  Paradise ! 
With  all  its  tiny  petals  folded  close, 

And  fed  by  sunshine  bright  and  warm ; 
Pure  as  the  lily,  painted  like  the  rose, 
A  beauty  rarer  did  my  bud  disclose. 

Needless  to  say  I  loved  it !    Needless  tell, 

Oh,  mystery  of  motherhood! 
How  sacredly  I  prized  my  babe;  how  well, 
How  patiently  I  bore  my  pain,  that  he 

Might  blended  in  him  have  all  good, — 
That  he,  my  precious  boy,  might  live  and  be 
All  that  my  destiny  denied  to  me. 

And  when  spring  came,  and  other  buds  blew  out, 

And  filled  the  air  with  fragrance;  when 
The  wandering  bee  buzzed  busily  about 


LIZZIE  HAMLETT 83 

Lured  to  the  orchard  by  its  faint  perfume 

And  flowering  regalia,  then 
His  eye  'gan  brighter,  and  his  cheek  to  bloom, 
My  truant  blossom  from  his  Eden  home! 

The  violets  in  the  woods  are  not  more  blue 

And  gladsome  than  my  baby's  eyes; 
Nor  softer  spring's  first  dove-notes  than  the  coo 
Of  his  sweet  voice.    I  breathe  upon  the  chords 

And  my  uiEolian  harp  replies! 
As  inarticulate  as  warbling  birds, 
As  musical,  as  matchless,  are  his  words. 

And  springtime  blossoms  ever  in  my  heart, 

And  love's  own  gladness  therein  lies; 
A  nearer  heaven — of  which  he  seems  a  part — 
Above  me  bending,  smiling  and  serene, 

I  see,  deep  in  my  baby's  eyes. 
Sure,  heaven  is  not  so  far  from  earth,  I  ween, 
While  I  can  hold  this  treasured  link  between ! 


84  ASA  HARTZ 


ASA  HARTZ 

This  was  the  pen  name  of  Major  McKnight,  an  officer  on 
the  staff  of  General  Loring  of  the  Confederate  Army.  Being 
captured  and  confined  on  Johnson 's  Island,  he  wrote  many 
poems  from  this  prison.  His  poems  have  never  been  published 
elsewhere  than  in  newspapers. 

My  Love  and  I 

MY  love  reposes  on  a  rosewood  frame ; 

A  bunk  have  I; 
A  couch  of  feathery  down  fills  up  the  same; 

Mine's  straw,  but  dry; 
She  sinks  to  rest  at  night  with  scarce  a  sigh; 
With  waking  eyes  I  watch  the  hours  creep  by. 

My  love  her  daily  dinner  takes  in  state, 

And  so  do  I ; 
The  richest  viands  flank  her  silver  plate; 

Coarse  grub  have  I; 

Pure  wines  she  sips  at  ease,  her  thirst  to  slake ; 
I  pump  my  drink  from  Erie's  limpid  lake. 

My  love  has  all  the  world  at  will  to  roam ; 

Three  acres  I; 
She  goes  abroad,  or  quiet  sits  at  home ; 

So  cannot  I; 

Bright  angels  watch  around  her  couch  at  night; 
A  Yank,  with  loaded  gun,  keeps  me  in  sight. 


ASA  HARTZ  85 


A  thousand  weary  miles  now  stretch  between 

My  love  and  I. 
To  her  this  wintry  night,  cold,  calm,  serene, 

I  waft  a  sigh, 

And  hope  with  all  my  earnestness  of  soul, 
To-morrow's  mail  may  bring  me  my  parole. 

There's  hope  ahead;  well  one  day  meet  again, 

My  love  and  I. 
We'll  wipe  away  all  tears  of  sorrow  then; 

Her  love-lit  eye 

Will  all  my  many  troubles  then  beguile, 
And  keep  this  wayward  Reb  from  Johnson's  Isle. 


86         ELLEN  E.  HEBRON 


ELLEN  E.  HEBRON 

Mrs.  Hebron,  whose  maiden  name  was  Ellington,  was  born 
in  1839,  and  died  in  1904.  Her  husband  was  Dr.  John  L. 
Hebron,  a  prominent  physician  and  planter.  A  woman  of  deep 
religious  convictions,  she  was  a  leader  in  the  work  of  the 
W.  C.  T.  U.  in  Mississippi.  She  was  an  honorary  member  of 
the  State  Press  Association.  Her  published  works  are :  ' '  Songs 
from  the  South, "  which  appeared  in  1875,  and  "Faith,  or 
Earthly  Paradise,  and  Other  Poems, "  published  in  1890.  Her 
home  was  in  Vicksburg. 

To  My  Brother 

A  SISTER'S  heart  goes  out  with  thee !  In  the  din 

Of  life's  great  battle  when  the  fiendish  foe 
Hath  well-nigh  compassed  thee  in  nets  of  sin, 

And  ready  stand  to  give  thee  deadly  blow ; 
When  friendship's  voice  no  longer  greets  thine 
ear, 

And  sorrow's  cloud  hangs  heavily  above; 
When  thou  wouldst  give  thine  all  of  earthly  store 

To  hear  one  cheering  word  of  unfeigned  love, 
Oh !  may  her  prayer  find  entrance  into  heaven ; 

And  to  thy  heart  fresh  courage  then  be  given. 

She  Would  not  have  thee  wear  the  Victor's  wreath, 
Unless  true  Merit  placed  it  on  thy  brow. 

She  would  not  have  thee  great,  if  love  of  fame 
To  mean  Hypocrisy  thy  soul  could  bow. 


ELLEN  E.  HEBRON 87 

But,  oil !  if  patriot  sacrifice  can  raise 

An  humble  boy  to  high  and  honored  place ; 

If  to  the  Good  and  True  the  meed  is  given, 
Of  those  who  run  in  glory's  toilsome  race, 

Oh !  then  mayst  thou  drink  deep  of  earthly  fame, 

And  leave  on  Freedom 's  page  a  fadeless  name. 


88     GRACE  HYER  HEMINGWAY 


GRACE  HYER  HEMINGWAY 

Mrs.  Hemingway  is  a  resident  of  Jackson,  in  which  city  her 
husband  is  a  prominent  lawyer. 

The  Seekers 

A  LITTLE  brook  came  wandering  down 

From  mountain  nook  secluded ; 
A  comrade  joined  it,  where  the  rocks 

From  fern  and  moss  protruded, 
And  tempted  it  to  linger  there 

Where  leafy  shadows  quiver. 
"Nay,"  said  the  brook,  "we  must  away 

To  join  the  shining  river." 

They  wandered  on,  a  happy  pair, 

O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow, 
Gay  comrades  joined  them,  one  by  one, 

To  haste  mid  shine  and  shadow, 
Through  narrow  gorge,  o'er  rocky  bed, 

Where  ripples  shine  and  shiver; 
While  ever  rose  that  clear  refrain, 

"We  go  to  seek  the  river." 

The  narrow  banks  could  not  confine 

So  many  hurrying  rovers, 
They  spread  afar,  'neath  sun  and  star, 

And  soon,  for  happy  lovers 


GRACE  HYER  HEMINGWAY  89 

They  bore  small  rowboats ;  later  on, 

Fair  ships  with  sails  a-quiver. 
0  ship  and  sail,  0  star  and  sun, 

How  far  to  seek  the  river ! 

One  bright,  one  glorious  day,  the  brooks, 

The  river  ever  seeking, 
A  vast  expanse  of  water  viewed ; 

With  mournful  voices  speaking, 
"The  sea!  The  sea!"  they  cried  aloud, 

"And  not  our  shining  river. 
We've  sought  the  river  far,  0  sea, 

And  shall  we  see  it  never?" 
"Now  rest  ye,  rest  ye,  little  brooks; 

Ye  are  the  mighty  river!" 


go  LAURA  F.  HINSDALE 


LAURA  F.  HINSDALE 

Mrs.  Hinsdale  was,  for  several  years,  a  resident  of  Biloxi. 
In  1896  her  volume  of  verse,  "Legends  and  Lyrics  of  the  Gulf 
Coast, "  was  published. 


Mysterious  Music  of  the  Gulf  Coast 

THERE  is  a  time  when  summer  stars  are  glowing, 

And  night  is  fair  along  the  Southern  shore, 
The  sailor,  resting  where  the  tide  is  flowing, 

Hears  somewhere  near,  below  his  waiting  oar, 
A  haunting  tone,  now  vanishing,  now  calling, 

Now  lost,  now  luring  like  some  elfin  air; 
In  murmurous  music  fathoms  downward  falling, 

It  seems  a  dream  of  song  imprisoned  there. 

The  legend  tells,  a  phantom  ship  is  beating 

On  yonder  bar,  a  wanderer  evermore, 
Its  rhythmic  music,  evanescent,  fleeting, 

Stirs  the  lagoon  and  echoes  on  the  shore. 
0  phantom  ship,  dost  near  that  port  Elysian 

Where  radiant  rainbow  colors  ever  play? 
Shall  hope's  mirage  return  a  blessed  vision; 

And  canst  thou  find  a  joy  of  yesterday? 


LAURA  F.  HINSDALE 


The  legend  tells  of  a  pale  horseman  fleeing, 

Whose  steed  the  gnomes  with  metals  strange  have 

shod, 
Who,  on  and  on,  a  distant  summit  seeing, 

His  way  pursues,  in  ocean  paths  untrod. 
His  spectral  hoofs  by  the  Evangel  bidden 

In  far  carillons  beat  in  measures  low, 
Elusive  tone!  dost  near  where  that  is  hidden 

Which  made  the  music  of  the  long  ago? 

The  legend  tells  of  syrens  of  the  ocean 

That  wander  singing,  where  the  sea  palms  rise, 
And  through  the  song's  intense  and  measured  motion 

I  seem  to  hear  their  soft  imprisoned  sighs. 
They  lure  me,  like  the  spell  of  a  magician, 

Once  more  I  see  the  palaces  of  Spain, 
I  feel  the  kindling  thrill  of  young  ambition, 

The  tide  sweeps  on  —  the  song  is  lost  again. 

The  legend  tells  of  vocal  sea-sands  sifting, 

With  vibrant  forces,  resonant  and  strong, 
And  on  the  surging  sand-dunes  fretting,  drifting 

Like  broken  hearts  that  hide  their  griefs  in  song. 
Tell  me,  white  atoms,  in  your  sad  oblation 

Of  drift  that  lies  so  deep  that  none  may  scan, 
Is  it  forgotten  in  God's  great  creation, 

Who  formed  the  fleeting,  hour-glass  life  of  man? 

The  legend  tells  of  those  who  long  have  slumbered, 

A  forest  race  too  valorous  to  flee, 
Who,  when  in  battle  by  their  foes  outnumbered, 

With  clasping  hands  came  singing  to  the  sea. 


92  LAURA  F.  HINSDALE 

The  ocean  drew  them  to  her  hidden  keeping, 
The  stars  watched  over  them  in  the  deeps  above, 

Their  death-song  lingers,  but  the  tones  of  weeping 
Tell  the  eternity  of  human  love. 


Spanish  Moss 

WHERE  forest  oaks  as  sentries  stand 

Outstretching  to  the  distant  seas, 
The  gray  moss  of  the  Southern  land 

Waves  softly  in  the  evening  breeze. 
Its  tiny  roots  their  life-strings  draw 

From  ancient  bough  and  tender  stem, 
And,  fed  by  nature's  mystic  law, 

Like  a  gray  mist  doth  compass  them. 

As  by  some  fairy  fingers  spun 

It  trembles  to  the  wind's  soft  sigh, 
It  sways  to  kisses  of  the  sun 

As  cloud-wreaths  mingle  in  the  sky. 
The  wild  bird  gathers  for  her  brood 

The  floss  to  line  her  sylvan  nest, 
It  screens  her  tender  solitude 

And  softly  veils  her  bed  of  rest. 

Such  fragile  root  the  moss  hath  won 
And  yet  it  seems  divinely  fed, 

And  can  it  be  from  sun  to  sun 

A  hungry  heart  may  lack  for  bread  ? 


LAURA  F.  HINSDALE 93 

So  little  fills  our  earthly  store, 

0  gray  moss  of  the  Southern  land! 

May  one  go  missing  evermore 
The  clasping  of  a  vanished  hand? 


94          WILLIAM  WALTON  HOSKINS 


WILLIAM  WALTON  HOSKINS 

Born  in  Holmes  county  in  1856,  Mr.  Hoskins  has  been  a 
lawyer,  a  minister,  and  an  editor,  in  which  last  capacity  he 
had  control  of  papers  at  Lexington  and  Corinth.  His  volume, 
entitled  "Atlantis  and  Other  Poems, "  was  published  in  1881. 
"Atlantis"  is  a  long  and  interesting  story  of  the  fabled  island 
or  continent  known  in  legend  by  that  name. 

Prologue  of  "Atlantis" 

COME,  reader,  go  with  me  unto  the  sea's  dark  caves, 
And  let  us  solve  the  secrets  of  its  hidden  graves. 

Thence  let  us  lift  the  solemn  pall  that  shrouds 
The  lifeless  forms  of  its  imprisoned  crowds. 

Whole  empires  we  will  raise  from  out  their  silent 

tomb, 
Where  they  have  lain,  long  centuries,  in  gloom; 

Eehuild  their  cities  that  have  crumpled  to  decay, 
And  people  them  again  as  in  their  olden  day. 

The  same  tall  trees  shall  lift  their  heads  again, 
The  same  rich  fruits  shall  bloom  on  hill  and  plain ; 

The  same  bright  streams  shall  irrigate  the  soil, 
And  the  same  harvests  bless  attentive  toil. 


WILLIAM  WALTON  HOSKINS  95 

The  same  wild  birds  shall  thrill  the  listening  air, 
And  the  same  flowers  shed  their  fragrance  there ; 

The  pulseless  dead  shall  wake  again  to  life, 
And  know  the  old  contentment,  and  the  strife. 

The  man,  who,  in  his  golden  pride  and  prime, 
Seemed  lost  to  earth  before  the  needful  time; 

The  woman,  who,  with  matron-face,  sedate, 
Bowed  her  meek  face  and  yielded  to  her  fate; 

The  boy,  who,  in  his  thoughtless,  careless  glee, 
Smiled  a  sweet  smile,  and  smiling,  ceased  to  be; 

The  girl,  who,  in  her  radiant  summer  years, 
Took  flight  amid  fair  Nature's  sighs  and  tears; 

The  infant,  which,  scarce  welcomed  to  the  earth, 
Was  nursed  by  Death  the  moment  of  its  birth; 

The  passions,  same,  shall  sway  the  human  breast: 
Love,  Envy,  Hate,  Revenge,  and  all  the  rest! 


g6  ROSA  VERTNER  JEFFREY 


ROSA  VERTNER  JEFFREY 

This  author  was  born  at  Natchez  in  1828,  and  died  in  Lex- 
ington, Ky.,  in  1894.  Her  published  works  consist  of  two 
novels,  "Woodburn"  and  "Marsh, "  and  three  volumes  of 
verse:  "Poems  by  Bosa,"  "Daisy  Dare,"  and  "The  Crimson 
Hand  and  Other  Poems. "  Her  poems  have  been  very  popular. 
An  interesting  sketch  of  her  life  may  be  found  in  "Women  of 
the  South  Distinguished  in  Literature/'  published  in  1861. 

Angel  Watchers 

ANGEL  faces  watch  my  pillow,  angel  voices  haunt  my 

sleep, 
And  upon  the  winds  of  midnight  shining  pinions 

round  me  sweep; 
Floating  downward  on  the  starlight  two  bright  infant 

forms  I  see, 
They  are  mine,  my  own  bright  darlings,  come  from 

Heaven  to  visit  me. 

Earthly  children  smile  upon  me,  but  those  little  ones 

above 
Were  the  first  to  stir  the  fountains  of  a  mother's 

deathless  love; 
And,  as  now  they  watch  my  slumber,  while  their  soft 

eyes  on  me  shine, 
God  forgive  a  mortal  yearning  still  to  call  His  angels 

mine. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JEFFREY 97 

Earthly  children  fondly  call  me,  but  no  mortal  voice 

can  seem 
Sweet  as  those  that  whisper  " Mother!"    'mid  the 

glories  of  my  dream; 
Years  will  pass,  and  earthly  prattlers  cease  perchance 

to  lisp  my  name, 
But  my  angel  babies'  accents  shall  be  evermore  the 

same. 

And  the  bright  band  now  around  us  from  their  home 

perchance  will  rove, 
In  their  strength  no  more  depending  on  my  constant 

care  and  love; 
But  my  first-born  still  shall  wander  from  the  sky,  in 

dreams  to  rest 
Their  soft  cheeks  and  shining  tresses  on  an  earthly 

mother's  breast. 

Time  may  steal  away  the  freshness,  or  some  whelming 
grief  destroy 

All  the  hopes  that  erst  had  blossomed  in  my  summer- 
time of  joy; 

Earthly  children  may  forsake  me,  earthly  friends  per- 
haps betray, 

Every  tie  that  now  unites  me  to  this  life  may  pass 
away. 

But,  unchanged,  those  angel  watchers,  from  their  blest 

immortal  home, 
Pure  and  fair,  to  cheer  the  sadness  of  my  darkened 

dreams  shall  come. 


g8  ROSA  VERTNER  JEFFREY 

And   I   cannot  feel   forsaken,   for,   though    'reft   of 

earthly  love, 
Angel  children  call  me  "Mother!"  and  my  soul  will 

look  above. 


S.  A.  JONAS  99 


S.  A.  JONAS 

This  veteran  editor  of  the  Aberdeen  Examiner  died  in  that 
city  in  1913.     He  was  long  a  prominent  citizen  of  Mississippi. 

A  Confederate  Note 

EEPRESENTING  nothing  on  God's  earth  now, 
And  naught  in  the  water  below  it, 

As  the  pledge  of  a  nation  that's  dead  and  gone, 
Keep  it,  dear  friends,  and  show  it. 

Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear, 
To  the  tale  that  this  trifle  will  tell 

Of  liberty  born  of  a  patriot's  dreams, 
Of  a  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 

Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ores, 
And  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  borrow, 

She  issued  to-day  her  promise  to  pay, 
And  hoped  to  redeem  on  the  morrow. 

We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 
Yet  as  gold  our  soldiers  received  it; 

It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  " promise"  to  pay, 
And  each  patriot  soldier  believed  it. 

Keep  it, — it  tells  our  history  o'er, 

From  the  birth  of  the  dream  to  the  last, — 

Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel  Hope, 
Like  our  hope  of  success,  it  passed ! 


ioo  S.  A.  JONAS 


Only  a  Soldier's  Grave 

ONLY  a  soldier 's  grave!    Pass  by; 
For  soldiers,  like  other  mortals,  die. 
Parents  he  had — they  are  far  away ; 
No  sister  weeps  o'er  the  soldier's  clay; 
No  brother  comes,  with  a  tearful  eye : 
It's  only  a  soldier's  grave, — pass  by. 

True,  he  was  loving,  and  young,  and  brave, 
Though  no  glowing  epitaph  honors  his  grave ; 
No  proud  recital  of  virtues  known, 
Of  griefs  endured  or  of  triumphs  won ; 
No  tablet  of  marble  or  obelisk  high ; — 
Only  a  soldier's  grave, — pass  by. 

Yet  bravely  he  wielded  his  sword  in  fight, 
And  he  gave  his  life  in  the  cause  of  right ! 
When  his  hope  was  high  and  his  youthful 

dream 

As  warm  as  the  sunlight  on  yonder  stream; 
His  heart  unvexed  by  sorrow  or  sigh ; — 
Yet,  'tis  only  a  soldier's  grave, — pass  by. 

Yet,  should  we  mark  it, — the  soldier's  grave, 
Some  one  may  seek  him  in  hope  to  save ! 
Some  of  the  dear  ones,  far  away, 
Would  bear  him  home  to  his  native  clay : 
'Twere  sad,  indeed,  should  they  wander  nigh, 
Find  not  the  hillock,  and  pass  him  by. 


ROBERT  JOSSELYN 


ROBERT  JOSSELYN 

A  native  of  Massachusetts,  where  he  was  born  in  1810,  Robert 
Josselyn,  after  being  licensed  to  practice  law  in  Virginia,  re- 
moved to  Mississippi,  where  he  made  his  home.  He  served  as 
an  officer  under  Jefferson  Davis  in  the  Mexican  War,  and  was 
the  Confederate  President's  secretary  during  the  first  year  of 
the  Civil  War.  He  was  the  author  of  three  volumes:  "The 
Faded  Flower  and  Other  Poems/'  "A  Satire  on  the  Times/' 
and  "The  Coquette."  His  death  occurred  in  Texas,  to  which 
state  he  moved  from  Mississippi,  where  he  was  connected  with 
several  papers. 

The  Young  Widow 

SHE  is  modest,  but  not  bashful; 

Free  and  easy,  but  not  bold; 
Like  an  apple  ripe  and  mellow, 

Not  too  young  and  not  too  old. 
Half -inviting,   half-repulsing ; 

Now  advancing,  and  now  shy; 
There  is  mischief  in  her  dimple  ; 

There  is  danger  in  her  eye. 

Are  you  sad?    How  very  serious 
Will  her  handsome  face  become! 

Are  you  angry?    She  is  wretched, 
Lonely,  friendless,  tearful,  dumb. 


'ROBERT  JOSSELYN 


Are  you  mirthful?    How  her  laughter, 
Silver-sounding,  will  ring  out! 

She  can  lure,  and  catch,  and  play  you, 
Like  the  angler  does  the  trout. 

She  has  studied  human  nature, 

She  is  schooled  in  all  her  arts, 
She  has  taken  her  diploma 

As  the  mistress  of  all  hearts  ; 
She  can  tell  the  very  moment 

When  to  sigh  and  when  to  smile,  — 
Oh,  a  maid  is  sometimes  charming, 

But  a  widow  —  all  the  while. 

Ye  old  bachelors  of  forty, 

Who  have  grown  so  bald  and  wise  ; 
Young  Americans  of  twenty, 

With  the  love-looks  in  your  eyes, 
You  may  practice  all  the  lessons 

Taught  by  Cupid  since  the  fall, 
But  I  know  a  little  widow 

Who  could  win  and  fool  you  all. 


JOHN  S.  KENDALL  103 


JOHN  S.  KENDALL 

Professor  Kendall  is  a  member  of  the  faculty  of   Tulane 
University.    He  was  born  at  Ocean  Springs. 


Requiem 

LAY  him  low  beneath  the  pines, 

"Where  he  loved  to  be; 
There  the  mating  birds  will  come, 

And  the  drowsy  bee ; 
But  he  will  not  hear  them,  now, 

And  he  will  not  see. 

Sweet  the  scent  of  flowers  there, 

And  of  hay  new-mown, 
From  the  half -reaped  fields  below 

By  the  breezes  blown ; 
But  he  will  not  know  of  them 

When  the  day  is  done. 

If  at  twilight's  peaceful  hour 

Friendly  shadows  keep 
Vigil  by  the  narrow  bed 

"Where  he  lies  asleep, 
Will  it  soothe  his  spirit  there, 

In  the  earth  asleep? 


io4  JOHN  S.  KENDALL 

Who  shall  read  the  riddle  right, 
Underneath  the  grass, 

All  the  brave  ambition  stilled 
Like  a  dream  that  was, 

All  the  high  joy  at  an  end 
Ere  it  came  to  pass? 


Yet  how  near  an  answer  is — 

In  the  heaven's  blue, 
In  the  calyx  of  a  flower, 

Or  a  drop  of  dew: 
Strange,  if  we  should  cease  to  know 

Him  whom  once  we  knew ! 


Somewhere  each  unfinished  song 
Finds  a  perfect  close; 

Somewhere  each  defeated  hope 
Full  fruition  knows; 

And  what  seems  a  broken  life 
Shall  be  one  with  those. 


Leave  him  there  beneath  the  pines! 

Shall  we  count  it  gain, — 
We,  who  watch  confusedly 

In  the  gates  of  pain, 
Asking  for  we  know  not  what, — 

All  our  asking  vain  ? 


JOHN  S.  KENDALL 105 

We  who  loved  him  know  his  peace 

Waits  not  on  our  will, 
And  the  anguish  in  our  hearts 

Cannot  work  him  ill: 
Let  him  sleep  beneath  the  pines, 

There  upon  the  hill ! 

Aspiration 

THE  bird  that  limps  on  a  wounded  wing, 
Lost  in  the  hedgerow's  shadow  deep, 
Yet  aches  with  the  desire  to  sing, — 

To  sing  and  soar  on  tireless  sweep 
Of  pinion  through  unbounded  sky, — 
Is  you 

And  I. 

The  flow 'ret  blooming  in  the  shade 
Of  forests  long  forgot  and  old, 
That  fain  a  moment  would  be  laid 

In  Beauty's  hair  of  shining  gold, — 
For  that  brief  triumph  glad  to  die, — 
Is  you 

And  I. 

0  heart  that  beats  unsatisfied, 

0  spirit  gyved  with  petty  care, 
0  shattered  hope  and  stricken  pride, 
We  in  the  common  burden  share, 
For  all  things  that  aspire  too  high 
Are  you 
And  I. 


106  WILL  H.  KERNAN 


WILL  H.  KERNAN 

Almost  immediately  after  Kernan  became  editor  of  The 
States,  a  newspaper  published  at  Okolona,  in  1876,  that  paper 
sprang  into  national  prominence.  In  prose  and  verse  the  editor 
set  down  the  sentiments  of  the  ' '  unreconstructed ; '  people  of 
the  South.  The  circulation  of  this  country  weekly  soon  reached 
ten  thousand,  and  its  utterances  became  the  subject  of  debate 
in  Congress.  Born  in  Ohio,  Kernan  was  graduated  from  the 
University  of  Michigan  in  1869,  and  immediately  began  news- 
paper work.  In  1875  he  came  South.  He  has  been  connected 
with  papers  in  a  half-dozen  or  more  states.  His  poems,  which 
appeared  under  the  title  "The  Flaming  Meteor/'  were  pub- 
lished in  1892. 

Questionings 

I  WONDER  when  the  spirit 
Leaves  the  flesh  and  bone  that  bound  it 
To  the  passions  of  our  planet 

And  the  raptures  of  our  race, 
If  it  sees  its  poor  lost  body, 
With  the  loving  arms  around  it; 
If  it  quivers  with  the  kisses 
On  the  pure  and  pallid  face! 

I  wonder  if  it  listens 

To  the  praises  of  the  pastor; 
Hears  him  say  the  dead  has  risen 
To  the  Sunland  of  the  Soul, 


WILL  H.  KERNAN 107 

While  it  knows  the  secret  sinnings 
Of  the  thing  that  was  its  master 
Eise  with  flaming  swords  to  drive  it 
From  the  glory  and  the  goal ! 

I  wonder  if  it  watches 

Till  it  sees  the  dead  forgotten, — 
Sees  new  friends  usurp  the  favor 
Of  the  hearts  that  were  its  own ; 
If  it  looks  below  the  daisies 

Where  the  grave-worm  is  begotten, — 
Where  the  eyeless  skull  is  grinning 
At  a  jest  to  us  unknown ! 

I  wonder  if  the  truth  is 
That  the  spirit  can  remember 
All  its  pains  and  all  its  passions, 

All  its  terrors  and  its  tears, 
Stealing  swiftly  on  its  vivid 
Summer  visions,  as  November 

Crashes  down  in  storm  and  darkness 
On  the  splendor  of  the  years ! 

No !  ah,  no !    Far  better  for  us 
That  we  die,  and  die  forever, — 
That  we  slip  into  the  shadows 

And  the  silences  eterne, 
Than  be  hunted  down  and  haunted, 
When  the  soul  and  sense  dissever, 
With  the  memories  that  mock  us 
In  this  lower  life  inf erne ! 


io8  HERBERT  LAMPE 


HERBERT  LAMPE 

Mr.  Lampe  is  a  resident  of  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  Born  in 
Ohio,  in  his  early  youth  he  came  to  Mississippi,  where  he 
made  his  home  in  Jones  county,  until  he  moved  to  the  West 
four  or  five  years  ago.  His  poems  have  been  written  either  for 
his  own  amusement  or  for  the  entertainment  of  his  friends. 


It  Is  Spring  in  My  Heart 
Song  with  Irish  Accent 

IT  is  Spring  in  my  heart :  and  the  sunlight  is  dancing 
Where  sparkles  and  glistens  the  new  fallen  dew; 

And  its  radiance  bright,  through  the  foliage  glancing, 
With  its  smiles  and  its  tears  sure  reminds  me  of 
you. 

It  is  Spring  in  my  heart:  and  all  nature  is  calling; 

So,  blushing  demurely,  the  maple  inclines; 
And  shy  yellow  blossoms,  confused,  now  are  falling 

As  the  jessamine  true  the  red  maple  entwines. 

It  is  Spring  in  my  heart :  and  the  mocking  bird,  sing- 
ing, 

Sure  changes  his  tune  as  occasion  demands; 
And  his  melody  now  through  the  woodland  is  ringing ; 

Sure,  his  tune  every  bird  in  the  woods  understands. 


HERBERT  LAMPE 109 

It  is  Spring  in  my  heart:  and  the  brook,  running 

wildly, 

Sure,  gleefully,  mirthfully  dashes  its  spray; 
With   a  laugh   and  a  song, — sure,   I'm  putting  it 

mildly, — 
Makes  love  to  the  flowers  it  meets  by  the  way. 

It  is  Spring  in  my  heart :  and  the  sun  is  yet  shining, 
The  maple  and  jasmine  still  covered  with  dew; 

Sure,  the  murmuring  brook  and  the  birds  are  di- 
vining 
That  my  heart,  altogether,  belongs  now  to  you. 


no       ELEANOR  PERCY  LEE 


ELEANOR  PERCY  LEE 

Mrs.  Lee  was  born  in  Adams  county  in  1820,  and  died  in 
Natchez  in  1849.  She  was  the  sister  of  Catherine  Anne  War- 
field,  and  was,  with  her  sister,  co-author  of  two  volumes  of 
poetry:  "The  Wife  of  Leon  and  Other  Poems "  and  "The 
Indian  Chamber  and  Other  Poems. " 


Locust  Trees 

LEAD  me  beneath  the  locust  trees, 

Where  grass  and  violets  spring, 
And  whence  the  gentle  summer  breeze 

Bears  fragrance  on  its  wing. 
I  sicken  in  this  shadowed  room, 

This  place  of  grief  and  pain ; 
Ah,  let  me  greet  the  scent  and  bloom 

Of  those  loved  trees  again! 

Those  blossoms  slight  and  delicate, 

Are  fraught  with  many  a  dream ; 
They  shadowed  o'er  my  father's  gate, 

With  their  white  sunny  gleam: 
They  hung  around  the  lowly  eaves; 

They  drooped  above  the  door, 
With  their  small  green  and  fluttering  leaves, 

In  motion  evermore. 


ELEANOR  PERCY  LEE 111 

We  wove  their  blooms  upon  our  brows, 

The  young,  bright  month  of  June ; 
And  all  beneath  their  sheltering  boughs, 

We  shunned  the  heat  of  noon. 
They  bear  with  them  a  holy  spell 

Of  long  departed  years; 
What  marvel  that  I  love  them  well, 

Although  I  give  them  tears! 

Lay  me  beneath  the  locust  trees, 

When  life  hath  passed  away, 
With  all  its  bitter  mysteries, — 

Its  sorrows  and  decay. 
If  foreign  skies  must  shade  my  grave 

With  gray  and  cheerless  gloom, 
Oh,  let,  at  least,  above  me  wave 

These  trees  of  glorious  bloom ! 

And  they  with  branches  heavenward  cast 

Shall  shield  my  silent  dust : 
Familiar  friends,  that  to  the  last 

Were  faithful  to  their  trust! 
Alas!  how  lone,  how  desolate 

Must  be  that  heart,  which  clings 
With  love  that  baffles  time  and  fate, 

To  still  and  senseless  things! 

My  heart,  across  that  gulf  of  grief, — 
That  waste  of  care  and  pain, — 

That  marked  its  sojourn  dark  and  brief, 
Goes  back  to  youth  again. 


ii2 ELEANOR  PERCY  LEE 

I,  who  have  trodden  palaces, 
And  known  a  proud  command, 

Find  all  my  comfort  traced  in  these 
Trees  of  my  native  land! 


MUNA  LEE  113 


MUNA  LEE 

Miss  Lee  was  born  in  Raymond,  Miss.,  in  1895,  and  when 
eighteen  received  her  bachelor 's  degree  from  the  University 
of  Mississippi.  She  has  spent  most  of  her  life  in  Oklahoma. 
The  selections  from  her  verse  here  made  first  appeared  in 
Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse  published  in  Chicago. 

Compensation 

I  SHALL  not  grieve  that  you  are  dead. 

I  sing  to  you  when  the  stars  hang  low; 
And  though  I  sang  till  dawn  were  red, 

You  still  must  hear,  you  could  not  go. 

You  are  contented,  being  dead — 
You  who  were  used  to  wander  far. 

Now  I  plant  flowers  at  your  head, 
And  steal  out  nightly  where  you  are. 

Ah,  once  you  wandered  far  and  long, 
And  left  me  waiting  hopeless  here. 

Though  I  sent  you  my  breaking  heart  in  a  song, 
You  were  too  far — you  could  not  hear. 

Now  it  is  I  could  go  oversea, 

And  though  I  stayed  till  years  were  sped, 
You  would  lie  peaceful,  waiting  me. 

I  shall  not  grieve  that  you  are  dead. 


ii4  MUNA  LEE 


Magdalen 

GOD  made  my  body  slim  and  white 
To  be  men's  torture  and  men's  delight. 

God  made  my  heart  a  wayside  inn, 
And  there  the  guests  keep  merry  din. 

God  left  my  soul  a  lamp  unlit — 
But  only  God  ever  thinks  of  it. 


W.  B.  LOCKWOOD  115 


W.  B.  LOCKWOOD 

Mr.  Lockwood  is  a  lawyer  who  makes  his  home  in  Crystal 
Springs.  His  poem  "Nail  the  Flag  to  the  Plow"  achieved 
immediate  success  upon  its  publication. 


Nail  the  Flag  to  the  Plow 

NAIL  the  flag  to  the  plow ! 

The  country  needs  grain, 
"While  the  sailor  boys  guard 

The  tracks  of  the  main. 
God  gave  you  the  fields 

And  the  sun  with  its  light; 
Then  double  their  yields 

While  the  sailor  boys  fight. 


Nail  the  flag  to  the  plow ! 

The  soldiers  must  eat 
While  defending  the  trenches 

Or  suffer  defeat. 
You  can  help  the  brave  soldier 

At  this  time  of  his  need 
By  increasing  your  acres, 

And  planting  more  seed. 


n6  W.  B.  LOCKWOOD 

Nail  the  flag  to  the  plow ! 

Your  children  and  wife 
Must  be  saved  from  starvation 

While  the  world  is  in  strife. 
Your  duty  is  plain ; 

Your  mission  is  grand; 
Each  man  is  a  hero 

Who's  tilling  the  land. 

You  say  you're  too  old 

To  fight  with  a  gun ; 
Then  work  in  the  fields 

Till  the  setting  of  sun, 
And  show  to  the  world 

By  the  sweat  on  your  brow, 
That  you're  serving  your  country 

With  a  flag  on  your  plow. 


MARGARET  ANN  LOGAN      117 


MARGARET  ANN  LOGAN 

Miss  Logan,  who  lives  at  Pass  Christian,  has  published  one 
volume  of  verse,  "Sweet  Alyssum." 

Success 

I  FANCIED  her  a  fair  and  flower-crowned  maid 

Compassed  with  rosy  light, 
And  at  her  shrine  youth,  hope,  and  fortune  laid — 

She  never  blessed  my  sight. 

So  passed  the  years,  and  I,  grown  old  and  gray, 
Thought  not  her  wreath  to  wear, 

For  death  had  borne  the  loving  friends  away 
Who  joyed  my  joy  to  share. 

'Twas  then  a  calm-eyed,  low- voiced  woman  came 

That  dreary  hour  to  bless  ; 
I  gently  greeted,  and  besought  her  name: 

Smiling,  she  said:  f  *  Success. " 


n8    WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE  LORD 


WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE  LORD 

For  many  years  Mr.  Lord — though  a  native  of  New  York 
state — was  rector  of  an  Episcopal  church  in  Vicksburg;  and 
was  also  a  chaplain  in  the  Confederate  Army.  He  was  a  close 
friend  of  Jefferson  Davis.  After  the  Civil  War  he  returned 
North  and  died  in  the  state  of  his  birth.  He  was  the  author 
of  three  volumes  of  verse:  " Andre, "  "Christ  in  Hades/' 
and  "Poems." 

A  Dirge 

IT  falls  to  one,  it  falls  to  all ! 
He  that  we  bear  but  goes  before, 
Goes  from  his  door  beneath  the  pall, 
And  comes  no  more. 

From  roof  and  hearthstone,  one  by  one, 
We  bear  the  neighbors  whom  we  love, 
The  bearers  are  the  borne  full  soon. 
Ah!  Softly  move; 

And  shrink  not  from  the  harmless  dead, 
For  ye  hasten  to  their  company ; 
Loathe  not,  for  in  the  same  low  bed 
We  all  must  lie. 


BOOTH  LOWREY  119 


BOOTH  LOWREY 

As  a  platform  lecturer  of  great  ability  Mr.  Lowrey  is  well 
known  throughout  the  United  States.  He  has  written  many 
poems,  the  majority  of  which  have  been  published  either  in 
newspapers  or  magazines.  His  home  is  at  Blue  Mountain. 


The  Red-Haired  Girl 

You  may  sing  your  song  to  the  queenly  grace 

Of  the  raven-haired  brunette, 
To  the  faithful  soul  of  the  blue-eyed  blonde 

With  her  pose  of  a  statuette; 
You  may  pine  and  die  over  hazel  eyes, 

You  may  rave  o'er  the  chestnut  curl, 
But  for  all  the  charms  of  the  world  combined, 

Just  give  me  a  red-haired  girl. 


The  eyes  of  jet  and  the  raven  locks 

Are  a  source  of  rare  delight, 
And  the  moonbeam  curls  of  the  meek-eyed  blonde 

Are  a  soul-bewitching  sight ; 
But  the  peach-like  cheeks  and  the  rosy  lips 

And  the  teeth  of  chiseled  pearl, 
Are  the  outward  sparks  of  an  inward  light, 

The  soul  of  the  red-haired  girl. 


120  BOOTH  LOWREY 

Her  cheeks  are  fresh  as  the  blushing  rose 

That  blooms  in  the  joyous  spring; 
Her  eyes  are  bright  as  the  summer's  beams 

That  dance  on  the  blue-bird's  wing; 
Her  hair  is  like  to  the  autumn  leaves 

That  glisten,  and  dance,  and  whirl; 
And  the  seasons,  all  but  the  winter's  chill, 

Are  found  in  the  red-haired  girl. 

The  blush  of  spring,  and  the  summer's  calm, 

And  the  autumn's  sober  truth, 
The  placid  candor  of  sweet  old  age 

And  the  fire  of  ardent  youth, 
O,  Nature's  casket  of  rarest  gems, 

Of  rubies  and  gold  and  pearl, 
Of  diamonds,  onyx  and  evening  stars, 

0,  royal,  red-haired  girl! 


PERRIN  HOLMES  LOWREY  121 


PERRIN  HOLMES  LOWREY 

This  author  is  a  member  of  the  well-known  Lowrey  family 
of  Mississippi.  His  home  is  at  Blue  Mountain.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  leading  magazines. 


War  Dogs  of  the  Sea 

THE  bulldog  battleships  are  chained 

At  anchor,  kenneled  in  the  bay; 
The  swift,  sleek  cruisers  doze  and  dream, 

Lank,  supple-sinewed,  graceful,  gray; 
The  restless  beagle  gunboats  go 

From  point  to  point  and  sniff  the  sea; 
Torpedo  boats  lie  long  and  low, — 

The  watch  dogs  of  our  liberty. 


The  wireless  purrs  approaching  doom. 

The  pack  awakes.    The  beagles  leap, 
The  slender  cruisers  race  the  gloom; 

The  bulldogs  plunge  along  the  deep ; 
The  mastiff  dreadnoughts  breast  the  wind ; 

The  scent  is  caught.    The  quarry  flees, 
The  ranging  dogs  in  hot  pursuit, 

In  eager  anger,  hunt  the  seas. 


122  PERRIN  HOLMES  LOWREY 

Their  searchlight  eyes  descry  the  game, 

Their  savage  voices  tear  the  night. 
A  froth  of  fury  flecks  the  main, — 

The  pathway  of  the  running  fight. 
The  baying  thunder  of  the  guns, 

The  tangled  growls,  the  brutal  bark 
Of  all  the  dogs  of  war  are  heard 

Across  the  distance  and  the  dark. 

The  panting  pack  limps  home  at  last 

Along  a  star-filled,  silent  sea, 
Their  huge  hearts  throbbing  proudly  past, 

Their  wet  flanks  grim  with  victory. 
The  carcasses  of  mangled  prey 

Are,  stripped  and  ghastly,  flung  afar; 
A  great  flag  stiffens  in  the  wind, 

Defended  by  the  dogs  of  war. 


Song  of  the  Flag 

OH,  sing  we  the  song  of  the  flag, 

Of  the  banner  that  billows  and  beats 
As  it  rips  through  the  wind  on  the  roofs  of  the  towns 

And  whips  at  the  top  of  the  fleets. 

It  tears  through  the  rage  of  the  blast, 

In  a  fury  it  tugs  to  be  free, 
As  it  swings  in  the  teeth  of  the  storms  of  the  land 

And  sings  in  the  gales  of  the  sea. 


PERRIN  HOLMES  LOWREY  123 

It  runs  in  the  winds  of  the  plains, 

It  steadies  and  stiffens  and  thrills, 
It  streams  in  the  smoke  of  the  scattering  clouds, 

And  gleams  on  the  bayonet  hills. 

Oh,  sing  we  a  song  of  the  flag, 

As  it  bellies  and  flutters  and  flings, 
As  it  leaps  to  a  home  in  the  arms  of  the  air, 

And  laughs  at  the  lusts  of  the  Engs. 

It  flames  with  the  red  of  the  dawn, 

And  the  white  of  the  breakers  that  race ; 

It  burns  with  a  beacon  of  wonderful  stars 
On  a  banner  of  infinite  space. 


i24  JAMES  D.  LYNCH 


JAMES  D.  LYNCH 

Mr.  Lynch  was  for  years  a  citizen  of  West  Point,  Miss., 
where  he  was  engaged  in  the  practice  of  law.  He  died  in 
Texas.  His  best  known  poem  is  the  one  entitled  "Columbia 
Saluting  the  Nations' ';  his  poems  have,  however,  never  been 
published  in  book  form.  He  was  the  author  of  "Kemper 
County  Vindicated "  and  "The  Bench  and  Bar  of  Mississippi/' 
as  well  as  of  two  or  more  books  that  were  published  after  he 
went  to  Texas. 

The  Fall  of  the  Alamo 

UPON  the  western  borders,  under  Bexar's  amber  skies, 

Where  the  sparkling  earth-born  Pedro  emerges  from 
its  rise, 

And,  dancing  through  the  copses  and  sunny  margin 
charms, 

Spreads  its  grass-leashed  tresses  in  San  Antonio's 
arms: 

Amid  a  scenery  glowing  with  soft  Elysian  beam 

A  castled  convent  nestled  fast  beside  the  limpid 
stream, 

Where  heaven  and  nature  mingled  their  joint  prime- 
val sway 

And  orison  and  carol  were  wont  to  wake  the  day. 

But  now  the  sacred  fortress,  embattlement  and  shrine, 

Was  girt  about  by  darkness  and  Santa  Anna's  line; 


JAMES  D.  LYNCH  125 

While  Travis  held  his  Texans  in  daring  firm  array, 
And  manned  the  fated  ramparts  without  the  least 

dismay, 

Five  thousand  Mexic  soldiers  began  their  fierce  as- 
sault; 
Less  than  two  hundred  Texans  compelled  their  line 

to  halt; 

The  vengeful  missiles  battered  and  dinned  the  fort- 
ress' walls, 
While  ever  its  fiery  casements  returned  a  shower  of 

balls. 
Ten  days  and  nights  the  assailants  renewed  their 

fierce  attack; 
Ten  days  and  nights  the  Texans  as  fiercely  beat  them 

back, 
And  spread  around  a  purple  destruction  far  and 

wide  ; 
Yet  their  thin  line  was  weakened  by  every  beating 

tide; 
But  their  brave  leader  called  and  their  dauntless 

spirits  fired 

To  meet  a  death  as  votive  as  knighthood  e'er  inspired. 
"Who'll  not  say  'Die'  and  never  a  coward's  breath 

resign?" 
He  asked,  as  with  his  sword-point  he  calmly  drew  a 

line. 
All  leaped  the  test  of  courage  and  pledged  their 

dying  might, 
Save  one  weak  soul  who  sought  to  escape  by  means 

of  flight. 


126  JAMES  D.  LYNCH 

The  morning  came  and  once  more  was  heard  at  rise 
of  sun 

Far  o'er  the  plains  the  pealing  of  their  last  signal 

gun- 
List,  Houston,  'tis  a  farewell,  the  last  sad  word  of 
fate! 

Haste,  double-quick,  bring  succor!  Alas!  too  late! 
too  late! 

For  at  the  midnight  hour  of  that  ensanguined  day 

The  foe,  with  fury  raging,  advanced  upon  their  prey ; 

And  pressing  through  the  scanty  and  dwindling 
fusillades, 

O'erleaped  the  feeble  bastions  and  forced  the  barri- 
cades. 

"Blow  up  the  fort!"  the  wounded  but  dauntless 
Travis  cried, — 

The  sweet  death-triumph  gladdened  the  dying  sol- 
dier's pride. 

A  faithful  comrade  hastened,  delighted  to  obey, 

But  fell  before  his  fagot  could  crown  the  immortal  day. 

Within  the  breach  the  remnant  of  freedom's  martyrs 
stood 

And  grappled  with  their  victors  to  dearly  sell  their 
blood — 

A  clang,  a  shout,  a  silence,  and  living — there  were 
none: 

Alamo's  valiant  struggle  and  tragic  work  were  done. 

Live  on,  grow  old  uadimming,  thou  glorious  Alamo ! 
Grow  old  in  years  and  memories,  for  thou  canst  never 
grow 


JAMES  D.  LYNCH 127 

Too  old  for  fame ;  its  radiance  will  ever  blazon  thee 
And  ever  wreathe  with  glory  its  New  Thermopylae. 
Thy  blood  will  cry  forever  (of  messengers  thou  had'st 

none), 

And  tell  thy  patriot  story  to  every  clime  and  sun — 
Old  memories  ever  quicken  a  breathing  in  thy  stones 
And  ring  thy  hoary  walls  with  sound  of  thrilling 

tones ; 

For  when  I  listen  reverently,  an  echo  of  the  years 
Recalls  the  battle  shout,  and  I  hear  Jacinto's  cheers: 
"Forward,  forward,  comrades,  remember  the  Alamo! 
And  let  its  fee  of  vengeance  be  death  to  every  foe!" 

Live,  Travis,  Bonham,  Bowie,  and  Crocket,  live  in 
name ! 

Death  quenched  your  patriot  spirits,  but  freedom 
caught  the  flame; 

Let  honor  shine  forever  on  all  the  hallowed  band 

Who  fell  at  the  Alamo — birth-offering  of  a  land. 

Ah,  they  died  blessed,  for  heaven  decreed  the  patri- 
ot's prize 

That  from  their  martyr  ashes  the  bright  Lone  Star 
should  rise. 

All  praise  to  the  noble  "Daughters,"  whose  zeal  of 
soul  sublime 

"Would  shield  the  sacred  relic  from  wasting  blasts 
of  time ! 


128        WALTER  MALONE 


WALTER  MALONE 

Malone  was  born  in  De  Soto  county  in  1860,  and  died  in 
Memphis,  Tenn.,  in  1914.  When  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age 
his  first  book  of  poems  was  published,  and  his  second  when  he 
was  nineteen.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Missis- 
sippi; was  licensed  to  practice  law;  went  to  Memphis  and  there 
entered  into  practice.  In  that  city  he  held  high  judicial  posi- 
tion. His  published  works  comprise  ten  volumes:  "Claribel 
and  Other  Poems, ' '  ' '  Narcissus, ' '  ' '  The  Outcast, ' '  ' '  The  Com- 
ing of  the  King, ' '  ' '  Dusk  and  Dawn, ' '  ' '  December  and  June, ' ' 
" Songs  of  North  and  South,"  "Poems,"  "Songs  of  East  and 
West,"  and  "Hernando  De  Soto." 

Opportunity 

THEY  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more 
When  once  I  knock  and  fail  to  find  you  in ; 

For  every  day  I  stand  outside  your  door, 
And  bid  you  wake,  and  rise  to  fight  and  win. 

Wail  not  for  precious  chances  passed  away, 
Weep  not  for  golden  ages  on  the  wane! 

Each  night  I  burn  the  records  of  the  day, — 
At  sunrise  every  soul  is  born  again ! 

Laugh  like  a  boy  at  pleasures  that  have  sped, 
To  vanished  joys  be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb ; 

My  judgments  seal  the  dead  past  with  its  dead, 
But  never  bind  a  moment  yet  to  come. 


WALTER  MALONE  129 

Though  deep  in  mire,  wring  not  your  hands  and  weep ; 

I  lend  my  arm  to  all  who  say  "I  can !" 
No  shame-faced  outcast  ever  sank  so  deep, 

But  yet  might  rise  and  be  again  a  man ! 

Dost  thou  behold  thy  lost  youth  all  aghast? 

Dost  reel  from  righteous  Retribution's  blow? 
Then  turn  the  blotted  archives  of  the  past, 

And  find  the  future's  pages  white  as  snow. 

Art  thou  a  mourner?    Rouse  thee  from  thy  spell; 

Art  thou  a  sinner?    Sins  may  be  forgiven; 
Each  morning  gives  thee  wings  to  flee  from  hell, 

Each  night  a  star  to  guide  thy  feet  to  heaven. 


The  World  Is  My  Home 

I  TRAVEL  to  East,  I  wander  to  West; 

Each  land  that  I  see  is  dear  to  my  breast. 
I  greet  the  green  hills  as  I  float  down  the  Rhine, 

The  vineyards  of  France  I  love  as  if  mine. 
With  rapture,  the  castles  of  England  I  see, 

And  Switzerland's  peaks  are  old  friends  to  me; 
A  freeman  of  Athens,  a  tribune  of  Rome, — 

All  men  are  my  brothers,  the  world  is  my  home. 

Wherever  we  meet,  on  sea  or  on  sod, 

We  are  brethren  of  Christ,  we  are  children  of  God. 
They  may  prattle  of  codes,  or  prate  of  their  creeds,— 

I  care  not  for  these,  but  for  brotherly  deeds. 


130  WALTER  MALONE 

They  may  boast  of  their  church,  their  clique,  or  their 
clan — 

I  but  yearn  for  the  touch  of  a  true  fellow-man. 
So  my  heart  still  repeats,  wherever  I  roam: 

"All  men  are  my  brothers,  the  world  is  my  home." 


"He  Who  Hath  Loved" 

HE  who  hath  loved  hath  borne  a  vassal's  chain, 

And  worn  the  royal  purple  of  a  king; 

Hath  shuddered  'neath  the  icy  Winter's  sting; 
Then  reveled  in  the  golden  Summer's  reign; 
He  hath  within  the  dust  and  ashes  lain, 

Then  soared  o'er  mountains  on  an  eagle's  wing; 

A  hut  hath  slept  in,  worn  with  wandering, 
And  hath  been  lord  of  castle-towers  in  Spain. 
He  who  hath  loved  hath  starved  in  beggar's  cell, 

Then  in  Aladdin's  jeweled  chariot  driven; 
He  hath  with  passion  roamed,  a  demon  fell, 

And  had  an  angel's  raiment  to  him  given; 
His  restless  soul  hath  burned  with  flames  of  hell, 

And  winged  through  ever-blooming  fields  of  heaven. 


The  Graveyard 

ONCE  I  feared  thee,  mournful  Monarch,  with  thy  sad 
and  solemn  dells, 

Haunted  by  the  vesper  shadows  and  the  sobbing  fu- 
neral bells; 


WALTER  MALONE 131 

Haunted  by  the  spectral  roses,  in  their  silken  robes 

of  white, 
And  the  mock-bird 's  mystic  singing  in  the  dim  and 

dusky  night; 

Haunted  by  the  tombstones  ghastly  gleaming  through 
magnolia  leaves, 

And  the  restless  moonlight  figures  where  the  grave- 
mound  dimly  heaves. 

But  my  loved  ones  gather  with  thee  in  the  fading, 

fleeting  years, 
And  I  lay  within  thy  caverns  all  my  joys  and  hopes 

and  fears. 

Thou  hast  treasures  in  thy  bosom  richer  than  the 

ocean's  caves, 
Where  the  lustrous  pearls  are  beaming  and  the  coral 

forest  waves, 

Where  the  mermaid  gathers  amber  filled  with  mellow 

golden  light, 
And   the  silver-weighted   galleons  glimmer  through 

the  emerald  night; 

Thou  hast  hearts  of  gold  within  thee,  hearts  all  price- 
less pearls  above, 

Eich  with  sweetness,  rich  with  kindness,  rich  with 
never-dying  love ; 


WALTER  MALONE 


Thou  hast  dreams  and  aspirations  sleeping  with  thy 

sheeted  dead, 
Wondrous  visions,  grand  ambitions,  from  the  earth 

forever  fled. 

Thou  hast  beauties  in  thy  bosom,  blooming  under- 

neath our  feet, 
Lovelier  than  our  purple  lilacs  and  our  jasmine  soft 

and  sweet; 

Thou  hast  blue-eyed,   dimpled   children,   with  their 

mazy  golden  hair, 
Thou  hast  maids  with  brows  of  beauty,  manly  figures 

sleeping  there. 

Thou  hast  wisdom  in  thy  bosom  greater  than  the  lore 

of  earth, 
Gathered  by  its  gray-haired  sages  from  the  dim  crea- 

tion's birth; 

Thou  hast  infants  in  thy  bosom,  learned  in  secrets 

whispered  low, 
Which  our  wise  men  seek  forever,  never  find,  and 

never  know. 


WALTER  D.  MARTIN  133 


WALTER  D.  MARTIN 

Though  born  at  West  Point,  Miss.,  in  1870,  Mr.  Martin  was 
for  several  years  a  resident  of  Tennessee.  In  1906  a  volume 
of  his  work  appeared,  ' '  Lenora  and  Other  Poems. ' '  He  died 
at  Clarksville,  Tenn.,  in  1916. 


Not  There 

I  ATTENDED  the  ball  last  night,  sweetheart, 

And  the  music  that  thrilled  the  air 
"Was  sweet  as  of  yore.    Yet,  oh,  what  a  bore 

"Was  the  dance, — for  you  were  not  there ! 

And  the  girls,  young  and  fair,  were  there,  sweet- 
heart,— 

All  happy  and  gay  as  could  be; 
And  right  from  the  start  through  kindness  of  heart 

The  fairest  one  oft  favored  me. 

Yet  as  I  wheeled  o'er  the  smooth  wax  floor,  sweet- 
heart,— 

'Neath  the  light  shades  of  purple  and  blue, 
My  heart  was  elsewhere,  not  there,  oh,  not  there, — 

'Twas  with  you,  sweetheart,  with  you. 


134  ALEXANDER  K.  McCLUNG 


ALEXANDER  K.  McCLUNG 

Born  in  Virginia,  a  nephew  of  Chief  Justice  John  Marshall, 
McClung  came  to  Mississippi  in  1832.  He  was  a  lawyer  and 
an  editor.  He  served  as  an  officer  in  the  War  with  Mexico. 
His  death,  which  occurred  in  Jackson,  was  self-inflicted. 

1  'As  an  evidence  of  the  genius  of  Col.  McClung,  his  ' Invo- 
cation to  Death '  is  here  subjoined,  and  remembering  that  he 
died  by  his  own  hand  in  the  June  of  life,  it  will  be  read  with 
melancholy  interest  by  his  early  friends  who  still  linger  upon 
the  shores  of  time."  " History  of  Mississippi, "  by  Lowry 
and  McCardle. 

Invocation  to  Death 

SWIFTLY  speed  o'er  the  wastes  of  time, 

Spirit  of  Death. 
In  manhood's  morn,  in  youthful  prime, 

I  woo  thy  breath. 
For  the  glittering  hues  of  hope  are  fled 

Like  the  dophin's  light; 
And  dark  are  the  clouds  above  my  head 

As  the  starless  night. 
Oh,  vainly  the  mariner  sighs  for  the  rest 

Of  the  peaceful  haven, 
The  pilgrim  saint  for  the  shrines  of  the  blest, 

The  calm  of  heaven; 
The  galley  slave  for  the  night  wind's  breath, 

At  burning  noon; 
But  more  gladly  I  'd  spring  to  thy  arms,  0  Death, 

Come  soon,  come  soon ! 


DAVID  MOORE  135 


DAVID  MOORE 

A  native  of  western  Tennessee,  Moore  came  to  Mississippi 
about  1870.  He  is  a  lawyer  by  profession,  and  has  practiced 
in  the  southeastern  part  of  the  state.  He  now  makes  his  home 
in  Jackson.  His  poems,  under  the  title  ' '  Fallen  Leaves, ' '  were 
published  in  1914. 

Take  Courage 

THO'  hostile  might  array  to  fight, 

And  hitter  is  life 's  cup ; 
Tho'  oft  defeat  compels  retreat, 

And  hides  the  sun  of  hope; 
Be  glad  with  joys,  for  tima  employs 

Thy  griefs  to  guide  thee  right; 
For  happy  lays  shall  cheer  thy  days, 

And  love  shall  hring  thee  light. 

Tho'  thorny  crown,  and  fortune's  frown, 

Be  thine  to  take  and  wear; 
Tho'  dregs  and  dross,  and  suffering's  cross 

Be  thine  to  hold  and  bear; 
Take  courage  up,  and,  brave  with  hope, 

Go  forth  subduing  strife; 
The  truth  defend,  and  in  the  end 

Thou 'It  have  a  crown  of  life. 


136  CLAUDIA  BODDIE  MONEY 


CLAUDIA  BODDIE  MONEY 

Mrs.  Money  was  the  wife  of  Hon.  H.  D.  Money,  who  served 
for  two  terms  as  United  States  Senator  from  Mississippi,  and 
who  had  also  been  a  member  of  the  House  of  Eepresentatives 
before  entering  the  upper  house  of  Congress.  She  was  a  woman 
of  great  culture  and  of  decided  literary  ability.  After  her 
death  a  memorial  volume  of  some  of  her  writings,  entitled 
"Prose  and  Verse/'  was  published  by  Senator  Money  for  dis- 
tribution among  relatives  and  friends. 


To  a  Violinist 

HARMONIOUS  sounds  that  fill  me  with  delight 
There's  sure  no  passion  of  the  human  heart 

But  is  entangled  in  those  trembling  notes, 

The  sweetest,  saddest  strains  within  the  reach  of 
art. 

Alas,  its  charm !    Each  tender,  melting  air 

Hath  wondrous  power  o'er  weary  hearts  like  mine. 

It  seems  as  if  the  quivering  strings  would  break 
'Neath  all  the  mighty  weight  of  happiness  divine. 

Thou  sacred  Muse,  who  lends  to  human  thought 
Such  mystic  joy,  such  subtle  grace  and  fire, — 

To  Thee  I  leave  no  avenue  of  sense  unclosed, — 
When  artist-fingers  touch  th'  immortal  lyre! 


ELIZA  JANE  NICHOLSON  137 


ELIZA  JANE  NICHOLSON 

Mrs.  Nicholson  was  a  native  of  Hancock  county,  where  she 
was  born  in  1849.  She  died  at  New  Orleans  in  1896.  Of  the 
many  poems  she  wrote,  but  a  few,  comparatively,  are  included 
in  her  only  published  volume,  "Lyrics,"  which  appeared  in 
1877.  Much  of  her  verse  was  written  under  her  nom  de  plume, 
"Pearl  Rivers." 


Only  a  Heart 

ONLY  a  heart, — a  woman's  heart! 

Step  on  it,  crush  it — so! 
Bravely  done,  like  a  man,  and  true, 

Turn  on  your  heel  and  go. 


Only  a  heart !    Do  not  fear,  my  lord, 

Nobody  on  earth  is  near 
To  come  to  the  cry  of  the  wounded  thing, 

And  God  is  too  far  to  hear ! 


Only  a  heart !    What  matters  it,  pray, 

My  lord  of  the  iron  heel; 
Crush  it  again,  with  a  pitiless  smile ; 

'Tis  weakness,  my  lord,  to  feel. 


i38  ELIZA  JANE  NICHOLSON 

Nay,  stoop  not  to  touch  it,  my  lord, 
With  the  balm  of  a  gentle  word. 
So — so — coldly  turn  from  the  crushed,  bleed- 
ing thing; 
It  is  only  a  heart,  my  lord. 

Only  a  heart!   What  harm  is  done? 

Let  it  bleed  in  the  dust,  and  moan, 
Or  stifle  its  anguish  as  best  it  may, 

Or  stiffen,  my  lord,  into  stone. 

Only  a  heart !  It  was  fresh,  and  young, 
And  tender  and  warm,  I  know; 

As  pure  as  the  spirit  of  chastity, 
My  lord,  and  it  loved  you  so. 

But  nothing  is  lost.    Let  it  die,  my  lord, 
Let  its  death  be  quiet  or  slow. 

Such  hearts  are  plenty  as  summer  leaves ; 
We  find  them  wherever  we  go. 

Only  a  heart !  and  for  loving  you  so, 
The  cup  that  you  gave  let  it  drain 

To  the  bitterest  dregs.     Let  it  quiver  and 

bleed, — 
Let  it  beat  a  full  rhythm  of  pain. 

Nay !    Stay  not  to  make  it  a  grave,  my  lord ; 

But  back  to  your  pleasures  depart, — 
No  blood  on  your  hand,  no  stain  on  your  soul ; 

It  was  only  a  weak  woman 's  heart ! 


ELIZA  JANE  NICHOLSON  139 


The  Soldier's  Grave 

TREAD  lightly, — 'tis  a  soldier's  grave, 

A  lonely,  mossy  mound, — 
And  yet,  to  hearts  like  mine  and  thine, 

It  should  be  holy  ground. 

Speak  softly ;  let  no  careless  laugh, 

No  idle,  thoughtless  jest, 
Escape  thy  lips,  where  sweetly  sleeps 

The  hero  in  his  rest. 

For  him  no  reveille  shall  beat, 

When  morning  beams  shall  come; 

For  him  at  night,  no  tattoo  rolls 
Its  thunder  from  the  drum. 

No  costly  marble  marks  the  place 

Recording  deeds  of  fame; 
But  rudely  on  that  bending  tree 

Is  carved  the  soldier's  name. 

A  name  not  dear  to  us,  but,  ah ! 

There  may  be  lips  that  breathe 
That  name  as  sacredly  and  low 

As  vesper  prayers  at  eve. 

There  may  be  brows  that  wear  for  him 
The  mourning  cypress  vine ; 

And  hearts  that  make  this  lonely  grave 
A  holy  pilgrim  shrine. 


140  ELIZA  JANE  NICHOLSON 

There  may  be  eyes  that  joyed  to  gaze 

With  love  into  his  own, 
Now  keeping  midnight  vigils  long 

With  silent  grief  alone. 

There  may  be  hands  now  clasped  in  prayer 
This  soldier's  hand  has  pressed; 

And  cheeks  washed  pale  by  sorrow's  tears, 
His  own  cold  cheek  caressed. 

Tread  lightly;  for  a  man  bequeathed, 

Ere  laid  beneath  this  sod, 
His  ashes  to  his  native  land, 

His  gallant  soul  to  God ! 


Waiting 

DOWN  the  golden  shores  of  Sunset, 
On  the  silver  Twilight  strand, 

For  my  dark-eyed  poet-lover 
I  in  dreamy  waiting  stand; 

O'er  the  waters  deep  that  part  us, 
In  the  fairy  barque  of  Thought, 

Winged  with  silken  sails  from  Dreamland, 
By  the  hand  of  Fancy  wrought, 

He  is  floating,  floating  softly, 
Floating  straight  to  love  and  me. 

Hark!  the  mellow,  mellow  music 
Of  his  voice  upon  the  sea. 


ELIZA  JANE   NICHOLSON  141 

Reason  guides  the  fairy  shallop, 
And  his  heart-throbs  dip  it  low; 

"With  a  dreamy,  dreamy  motion, 
Rock  it  gently  to  and  fro. 

He  has  passed  the  shoals  of  Pleasure, 
Though  the  sirens  singing  there 

Sought  to  bind  him  to  their  bosoms 
With  their  golden,  golden  hair. 

And  he  brings  a  precious  freightage, 

Sparkling  gems  of  Poesie, 
Gathered  from  the  Isles  of  Beauty, 

And  this  wealth  is  all  for  me. 

All  for  me!  his  chaste,  his  chosen, 

Standing  by  the  Sunset-land, 
Like  the  spirit  of  a  Lily 

On  the  silver  Twilight  strand! 


142        MARY  H.  M.  ODUM 


MARY  H.  M.  ODUM 

Mrs.  Odum — whose  volume,  "Lenare  and  Other  Poems, "  ap- 
peared in  1866 — was  a  resident  of  Vicksburg  before  her  removal 
to  Texas,  a  few  years  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War.  She 
was  born  in  Kentucky.  Her  writings  were  usually  produced 
under  the  pen  name  "  L  'Eclair. ' ? 


THE  PICKET 

From  "Lenare" 

TWAS  night;  on  old  Potomac's  shore, 
The  stars  ne'er  shone  so  bright  before, — 
The  soldier  slept  upon  the  ground; 
His  single  blanket  wrapped  him  round; 
The  steady  watch-fire's  ruddy  glow 
Threw  lurid  light  upon  the  snow, 
And  save  the  picket's  measured  tread, 
The  camp  was  silent  as  the  dead. 
As  slowly  o'er  the  frozen  ground 
He  walks  his  weary  midnight  round, 
His  thoughts  to  bygone  pleasures  roam, — 
His  lone  heart  wanders  back  to  home : 
The  father,  on  whose  noble  brow 
The  snows  of  age  are  sprinkled  now, 
Who  breathed  a  prayer  that  he  might  be 
True  to  the  cause  of  liberty ; 


MARY  H.  M.  ODUM 143 

The  mother,  who,  in  infancy, 

Had  nursed  him  all  so  tenderly ; 

Ah!  well  her  boy  remembers  now 

Each  furrow  on  her  aged  brow, 

While  o'er  him  steals,  with  thrilling  power, 

The  memory  of  that  parting  hour ; 

The  moment  of  her  last  good-by, 

When,  with  a  sadly  filling  eye, 

She  bade  farewell  to  him  and  joy, 

And  said:  "God  bless  my  soldier  boy!" 

Then  o'er  his  heart  a  softness  steals, 

That  every  gallant  soldier  feels, — 

A  feeling  manhood  cannot  smother, 

When  thinking  of  his  absent  mother. 

Another  form,  to  memory  dear, 

Drew  from  his  eye  the  rising  tear; 

A  face  to  his  fond  heart  more  fair 

Than  tenants  of  the  upper  air. 

With  sigh  suppressed  he  fondly  drew 

From  near  his  heart,  so  warm  and  true, — 

Where,  e'en  in  battle  it  was  laid, — 

The  image  of  the  lovely  maid. 

He  stooped  beside  the  vivid  blaze, 

That  he  might  for  a  moment  gaze 

With  love,  with  adoration,  on 

The  eye  that  beamed  for  him  alone. 

That  girlish  face  was  passing  fair, 

And  beautiful  that  curl  of  hair; 

Dearer  than  aught  this  side  of  heaven, 

Save  her  by  whom  they  both  were  given. 

Long  gazed  he  on  that  senseless  thing, 


144 MARY   H.   M.   ODUM 

The  imaged  maiden  of  the  Spring, 
That  rises  in  the  lonely  dell, 
Where  fairies  future  visions  tell. 
Then,  with  a  quick,  convulsive  start, 
He  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  heart. 
* '  Oh,  happy  home !  beloved  Lenare ! 
When  will  thy  Walter  meet  thee  there? 
When  shall  around  his  heart  entwine 
The  echoes  of  that  voice  divine, 
Where  every  well-remembered  tone 
Around  this  dreary  hour  has  thrown 
A  spell  of  quiet,  pure  delight, 
To  cheer  his  lonely  heart  to-night  ?" 
Once  more  he  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  then  resumed  his  weary  pace. 


JAMES  MCCARTY  OLIVER         145 


JAMES  MCCARTY  OLIVER 

While  teaching  at  Lake,  Scott  county,  Oliver  brought  out  a 
volume  entitled  "The  Battle  of  Franklin,  The  Little  Girl  at 
Spanish  Fort,  and  Other  Poems."  That  was  in  1869.  He 
died  in  Mississippi  a  few  years  later.  Before  living  at  Lake 
Mr.  Oliver  had  lived  at  Madisonville.  He  was  educated  at  the 
University  of  Virginia,  and  was  an  officer  in  the  Confederate 
Army. 

To  Hattie 

THERE  is  an  eye,  whose  glowing  light, 
All  sweetly  pure  and  purely  bright, 
Has  made  my  spirit  sigh  to  think 
What  draughts  of  splendor  it  could  drink 
Fore'er,  if  in  affection  free 
That  jeweled  orb  beamed  but  for  me! 

There  is  a  lip,  whose  rosy  hue 

Has  searched  my  very  being  through, 

As  Modesty  and  Virtue,  there 

In  silence  said :   1 1  Forbear !  Forbear ! ' ' 

0  Christ !  how  happy  I  could  be, 

If  that  sweet  lip  bloomed  but  for  me ! 

There  is  a  hand,  whose  living  white, 
And  touch  of  softness  exquisite, 
Has  made  my  breast,  in  silence,  own 
A  throb,  which  was  before  unknown ; 


146         JAMES  MCCARTY  OLIVER 

Ohl  could  that  hand  my  beacon  be, 
"What  honors  yet  might  wait  for  me ! 

There  is  a  heart,  within  whose  well 
Of  deep,  rich  blood,  commingling  dwell 
Virtues,  whose  throbbing  tines  declare 
A  world  of  love  and  rapture  there ! 
Oh !  could  my  head  forever  be 
But  pillowed  there, — what  joy  for  me! 

There  is  an  eye,  a  lip,  a  hand, 

And  gentle  heart,  at  One 's  command, 

Whose  tender  light,  smile,  touch,  and  love 

Some  manly  soul's  delight  shall  prove. 

My  fondest  prayer,  whoe'er  he  be, 

Is,  lady,  that  he  11  live  for  thee ! 


JOHN  W.  OVERALL  147 


JOHN  W.  OVERALL 

A  native  of  Virginia,  Mr.  Overall,  at  an  early  age,  came  to 
Mississippi.  He  studied  law  at  Columbus  in  the  office  of  Gov. 
Tucker,  and  practiced  his  profession  successfully  in  that  city. 
Later  he  made  his  home  in  Mobile,  and  still  later  in  New 
Orleans,  in  which  cities  he  was  connected  with  newspapers. 


To  a  Miniature 

'Tis  strange  that  Art  can  weave  a  face 

So  radiant  and  divine, 
So   eloquent  with  thought   and   grace, 

So  beautiful  as  thine. 
I  almost  see  the  warm  blood  seek 

The  blue  veins  on  thy  brow, 
And  glow  upon  thy  pearly  cheek, 

So  life-like  seemest  thou. 


I  love  thy  dark  eye's  sunny  glee; 

There's  something  in  its  glance 
That  tells  thy  heart  is  fond  and  free, 

And  full  of  love's  romance. 
The  dimpled  lake,  the  sky's  soft  glow, 

Can  no  such  charms  impart, 
As  those  which  thou  dost  mutely  throw 

Around  the  burning  heart. 


148 JOHN  W.  OVERALL 

And  o'er  that  bosom,  white  as  snow, 

Entwined  in  thy  fair  finger, 
Dark,  dreamy  silken  ringlets  flow, 

As  if  they  loved  to  linger; 
And  blest  as  heaven  are  they  blest, 

Rocked   in  their  sea-wave  motion, 
Like  shadows  on  the  tiny  breast 

Of  some  sweet  mimic  ocean. 

Oh!  could 'st  thou  break  the  silent  spell 

That  binds  thy  lips  so  long, 
Each  soft,  enchanting  tone  would  tell 

That  thou  wert  born  for  song. 
To  me,  Art's  melody  but  mocks — 

For,  in  the  gilded  South, 
The  softest,  sweetest  music-box 

Is  woman's  rosy  mouth! 

How  fair  these  daughters  of  the  sun, 

These  black-eyed,  sparkling  things, 
These  jewels  of  the  Holy  One, 

These  angels  without  wings! 
One  golden  look,  one  crystal  tear, 

One  sweet,  emphatic  word, 
Is  worth  the  wealth  of  Ind,  so  dear, 

Or  all  we've  seen  or  heard. 

Lo!  dreams  of  love  fled  by,  yet  sweet, 

Come  back  to  me  again, 
Like   parted   angels   when  they  meet 

In  Aiden's  dear  domain. 


JOHN  W.  OVERALL  149 

And  gazing  in  those  orbs  of  light, 

Did  I  but  know  thee,  girl, 
I'd    brave    the    battle's    fiercest    fight 

For  one  bright  smile  or  curl! 


ISO       WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 

Mr.  Percy  is  a  member  of  a  family  long  distinguished  in  the 
social,  political,  and  literary  history  of  Mississippi.  He  is  a 
lawyer,  and  is  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession  in 
Greenville,  of  which  city  he  is  a  native.  A  volume  of  his  po- 
etry, ' l  Sappho  in  Levkas  and  Other  Poems, ' '  was  published  in 
1915. 

For  Music 

0  SINGER,  canst  thou  summon  up 

The  early  blue-bird's  wing? 
The  pang  of  those  uncertain  days 

That  swoon  with  unborn  spring? 

0  singer,  canst  thou  summon  up 

The  crimson  of  the  rose, 
The  silver  gloom  of  April  dawns, 

The  breathless  unrepose; 

The  yearning  in  the  dark,  divine, 
Deep  woods,  abloom  and  dumb, 

The  starry,  tear-blurred  nights  of  May 
That  bring  delirium? 

0  singer,  canst  thou  summon  up 

In  music  all  the  spring 
Whose  crowding  incense  caught  my  heart 

So  long  ago  ? — Then  sing ! 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY       151 


To  the  Mississippi 

THEY  came  from  fierce  burnt  Spain  to  seek  for  gold 

Upon  thy  shores,  and  with  superb,  strange  prows 

Dazzled  the  wilderness.     Their  proud  swarth  brows 

With  gorgeous  lust  of  gems  and  trove  made  bold 

The  river  folk  feared  as  the  gods  of  old. 

But,  lo!  thy  gods  awaking,  the  deep  drowse 

Of  death  their  chief  assuaged  of  quests  and  vows, 

And  him,  not  disillusioned,  thou  didst  fold. 

No  dreams  of  gold  of  jeweled  glebe  now  force 

Thy  stream  with  ships  adventuring ;  and  though 

Thy  yellowed  opulence  doth  flow, 

'Tis  not  from  stain  of  deep,  corroded  treasure. 

Imperial  indolence  is  thine  and  pleasure 

Of  hot,  long  listlessness  and  moody  course. 


To   a   Mocking-Bird :    From   Taormina 

THE  nightingale  has  a  golden  heart, 
And  a  silver  heart  the  wren; 

But,  oh  for  me  the  bold,  bright  bird 
That  sings  with  the  heart  of  men ! 

His  music  is  not  of  seas  forlorn, 

His  magic  is  not  of  tears; 
From  titled  throat  his  raptures  float 

And  tumble  in  laughter  and  jeers. 


152       WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 

He  does  not  cease  when  daylight  dies, 
But  he  sings  right  on  to  the  dark; 

The  stars  or  moon  may  die  or  swoon, 
In  the  drip  of  the  rain — 0  hark! 

He  does  not  cease  when  spring  is  done, 
And  his  mate  with  love  is  fled; 

A  fairer  thing  than  love  or  spring 
Is  life.    And  the  fall  is  red. 

Sing,  nightingales  and  silver  wrens 
And  fairy  throats  that  can; 

But  the  bird  I  love  is  the  darling  bird 
With  the  free  proud  heart  of  a  man. 


HAL  M.  PERKINS  153 


HAL  M.  PERKINS 

For  several  years  Mr.  Perkins  was  a  citizen  of  Senatobia. 
In  1913  he  published  a  small  volume  entitled  "Heart  Songs 
and  Other  Poems." 

When  I  Depart 

WHEN  I  bid  thee  farewell,  let  no  burning  tear-drops 

start. 
When    I've   weighed   life's   anchor,   or   the   corded 

cables  part, — 

No;  when  I  am  leaving,  let  there  be  no  grieving, 
Nor  heaving  of  the  heart. 

When  my  eyes  no  longer  turn  a  loving  look  to  thee, 
When  my  bark  is  drifting  out  upon  the  darkling  sea, 
Let  there  be  no  wailing,  when  begins  my  sailing 
Over  the  unknown  sea. 

When  I've  passed  the  portals,  gone  beyond  the  har- 
bor light, 

My  mast  the  circle  dipt,  and  my  ship  is  lost  to  sight, 
Lament  not  the  parting, — only,  as  I  am  starting, 
Simply  say: 

"Good-night!" 


154     SUSAN  THORNTON  PRICE 


SUSAN  THORNTON  PRICE 

Born  in  Hinds  county,  Miss.,  in  1838,  Mrs.  Price  is  now  a 
resident  of  Texas,  in  which  state  she  has  been  prominent  in  the 
work  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  A  collection  of  her  verse  was  pub- 
lished in  1912,  under  the  title  " Sunset  Vale  and  Other  Poems." 


The  Sunset  Vale 

MORNING  and  noon  have  passed  and  gone, 

My  feet  are  in  the  sunset  vale; 
I  tread  its  mystic  paths  alone, 

And  walk  amid  its  shadows  pale. 
Around  my  feet  the  sear  leaves  lie, 

Like  joys  and  hopes  they  once  were  fair 
Around  my  head  the  bleak  winds  sigh, 

About  my  heart  a  weight  of  care. 


Ah,  busy  life!     I  love  thee  yet, 

Thy  music  lingers  still  with  me; 
Sometimes  it  breathes  a  vague  regret, 

Sometimes  the  sweetest  melody. 
Along  the  heights  which  I  have  passed, 

Its  notes  come  floating  down  to  me, 
And  when  my  heart  is  overcast, 

Awakes  the  sweetest  minstrelsy. 


SUSAN  THORNTON  PRICE  155 

Ah,  weary  heart !  sigh  not  for  rest, 

Yield  not  thy  soul  to  vain  regret; 
I  see  a  gleaming  in  the  West, 

I  know  my.  sun  will  soon  be  set. 
Back  on  the  hills  a  glorious  light 

Illumes  the  darkness  of  the  vale, 
Ah,  setting  sun;  thy  radiance  bright, 

In  death's  deep  shadows  soon  must  pale. 

I  hear  the  surging  of  the  waves, 

Of  that  majestic,  mystic  sea; 
To  me  its  seething  waters  rave 

Of  death  and  of  eternity. 
The  light  of  faith  is  beaming  bright; 

Beyond  that  restless  rolling  sea 
A  home  of  love,  a  home  of  light, 

A  home  of  peace,  awaiteth  me. 


156  EVELYN  M.  PURVIS 


EVELYN  M.  PURVIS 

Miss  Purvis  is   a  teacher.     Her   home   is   at  Eden,   Yazoo 
county.     In  1902  she  published  a  volume,  "Poems." 


One  of  the  Reapers 

Dedicated  to  John  G.  Paton,  D.D.,  Missionary  to  the  South 
Sea  Islands 

THEY  dwelt  in  loving  confidence  in  a  cot  by  the  Scot- 
tish sea ; 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  and  said :  "A  secret  I've  for 
thee; 

'Tis  of  a  joy  for  which  we  both  have  yearned  and 
prayed  for  long, 

It  fills  my  days  with  gladness  and  my  heart  with 
sweet,  new  song; 

Within  my  being,  strong  and  deep,  a  love  so  won- 
drous lives; 

For  God,  in  answer  to  our  prayer,  a  little  child  now 
gives. 

"E'en   now  my  thought   grows  strangely  bold,   in 

longing  for  the  hour, 
When  I  shall  clasp  the  little  one,  and  feel  the  mighty 

power 


EVELYN  M.  PURVIS 157 

Of  mother-love  grown  deep;  how  sweet  to  bear  the 

child,  to  be  thy  wife ! 
The  little  child  will  teach  me  more  the  meaning  of 

my  life." 

They  knelt  that  night  together,  not  to  pray  for  gold 
nor  land, 

But  even  then,  to  give  their  child,  to  God's  own  lov- 
ing hand, 

To  use  for  good  to  human  kind:  "Thou,  Lord, 
mayst  take  Thine  own; 

For  Thine  it  is,  not  ours:  to  us,  it  is  from  Thee  a 
loan. 

Then  watch  us,  Lord,  and  give  us  grace  to  lead  the 
child  aright, 

That,  some  day,  unto  heathen  lands,  he'll  bear  Thy 
Word  of  Light." 

To-day,  that  child  of  theirs  in  power  walks  by  the 

Southern  Sea, 
Like  the  son  of  humble  Hannah,  teacher  and  judge 

is  he; 

And  angels  o'er  his  reaping,  sing  praises  from  above, 
While  the  mother,  watching  it  from  heaven,  is  filled 

with  thankful  love. 


158        LULAH  RAGSDALE 


LULAH  RAGSDALE 

Miss  Eagsdale  is  a  resident  of  Brookhaven,  and  is  a  native 
of  Mississippi.  Her  poems,  though  they  have  been  contributed 
to  leading  magazines  in  the  East  and  North,  have  never  been 
published  in  book  form,  her  only  published  book  being  a  novel, 
''Miss  Dulcie  from  Dixie, "  which  appeared  in  1917. 

Impennate 

BIRD  in  the  lucent  height, 
Cleaving  the  silver  light 
"With  mounting  wing, 
Why  didst  thou  come  my  way? 
Thou  hast  disturbed  my  day; 
I,  too,  would  sing. 

Thou,   with   one   passing   strain, 
Thrilled  with  the  pulse  of  pain, 

Yet  sweet  and  strong, — 
Thou  hast  shamed  all  my  art; 
Bird,  thou  hast  hurt  my  heart, 
That  aches  with  song. 

Thou,  Bird,  afar  canst  fly, 
Poising  in  sapphire  sky, 

Sick  of  Earth's  sin: 
Folding  thy  wings  so  near 

Thou  canst  the  heaven-harps  hear, 
Losing  Earth's  din. 


LULAH  RAGSDALE  159 

I,  plodding  day  by  day, 

Sing, — with  my  feet  in  clay, — 

Impotently. 

Music  of  upper  spheres 
By  drip  of  human  tears 
Is  drowned  for  me. 

Bird,  lost  in  far,  fair  shine, 
If  once  thy  wings  were  mine, 

I'd  sing  thy  strain. 
But  give  those  wings  to  me 

Those  songs  would  henceforth  be 
Earthly  and  vain. 

Birdling,  one  raptured  day 
I  shall  be  freed  from  clay, 

Winged  as  thou; 
Cleaving  the  crystal  sky, 
As  angels  sing  shall  I, 
Songs  I  dream  now. 


The  Mother's  Son 

AH  Son,  my  only  one,  my  errant  son, 
Who  wanders  somewhere  on  the  earth's  big  breast — 
But  who  can  say  ?  to  east  or  else  to  west, 
Whatever  way  the  fever  leads  you  on, 

And  fearful  of  the  straight-set  eyes  at  home, 
The   way-bound   feet,   that  know  no   tingling   need 
Of  wide  white  road  or  sparkling  open  mead, 
Keeps  silent  lip  to  every  pleading  "Come" — 


i6o LULAH  RAGSDALE 

Tour  quiet  mother,  with  the  busy  hands 

So  full  of  duties'  dull,  uncolored  thread, 

And   feet  that  round   and  round   the  circle  tread, 

Nor  ever  break  its  bound — she  understands! 

Hush!  by  the  safe  red  hearth  how  oft  at  night 
Has  she  a-sudden  listed  in  the  wind 
The  call — the  call !  and  guilty,  turned  to  find 
Calm  eyes  a-wonder  at  her  look  of  flight. 

Ah,  son,  who  wanders  as  the  wild  wind  blows, 
From  what  full  vein  you  drew  that  vagrant  blood, 
From  what  winged  soul  you  took  that  tameless  mood, 
Your  mother,  in  her  narrow  boundary,  knows. 


The  Illiterate 

JOHN'S  paper  crackles  like  a  bean; 

Ann's  novel  back  is  bent; 

Irl  holds  his  precious  magazine; 

Dave  has  his  Testament. 

Their  faces  wreathed  around  the  light 

Like  torches  seem  to  me 

Who  sits  back  in  the  room's  half  night — 

I  do  not  need  to  see! 

John  mutters,  "W-e-1-1 — !  that  is  the  worst! 

This  is  a  rotten  age." 

But  Irl  is  laughing  fit  to  burst; 

Ann's  eyes  from  page  to  page 


LULAH    RAGSDALE 161 

Flash  like  two  restless  stars  ablaze, 

And  David  pays  no  heed; 

He  seems  a-wandering  Heaven's  own  ways — 

I  wonder  what  they  read? 

There 're  things  they  know  I  have  not  heard; 

They're  hid  away  from  me. 

Locked  fast  in  every  printed  word, 

And  I — I  have  no  key. 

I  grope  in  dimness  blank  and  cold — 

How  do  they  know  who've  read? 

Perhaps  they  have  not  even  told 

Me  all  my  Saviour  said! 

I  sit  for  hours  when  they're  away, 

Their  books  within  my  hand; 

I  stare,  I  strive,  I  strain,  I  pray 

So  hard  to  understand. 

As  if  to  eat  the  secret's  heart 

My  eyes  the  pages  burn; 

But  when  I  cry  ' '  Give  me  a  start  ? ' ' 

All  smile,  "TOO  OLD  TO  LEAKN!" 

I'd  burn  each  old  eye  to  a  coal; 

I'd  work  a-twenty  year 

If  I  might,  after  death's  dark  roll, 

But  stand  my  Saviour  near 

And  say,  "My  heart  in  darkness  broke; 

Light  came,  dear  Christ  who  bled, 

And  there  is  not  one  word  you  spoke, 

My  own  eyes  have  not  read!'9 


162  JOHN   W.   ROBB,   JR. 


JOHN  W.  ROBB,  JR. 

Mr.  Eobb  was  born  at  Raymond,  Hinds  county,  in  1856,  and 
died  at  Eosedale  in  1878.  He  was  an  editor.  A  beautiful 
tribute  to  his  memory  may  be  found  in  the  poems  of  Will  H. 
Kernan. 

Come  unto  Me 

WHEN  darkness  and  sorrow  encompass  the  mind, 
And  Hope  breaks  the  garland  of  flowers  she  twined; 
When  friends  have  forsaken  the  heart  they  caressed ; 
Oh,  what  may  dispel  the  dark  gloom  in  the  breast? 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Mighty  speaks  softly  and  free: 
"Ye  weary  and  laden,  oh!  come  unto  me." 

Dark  winter  of  sorrow,  unfeeling,  may  roll, 
And  earthly  misfortune  sink  deep  on  the  soul, 
And  life's  timid  billows  may  break  o'er  the  breast, 
Till  it  longs  for  a  haven,  secure  in  its  rest; 
Then,  then  to  the  spirit  its  comfort  will  be: 
"Ye  weary  and  laden,  oh!  come  unto  me." 

The  pleasures  of  life  are  but  fleeting  at  best, 
And  sorrows,  more  lasting,  still  fade  with  the  rest; 
Then  why  should  the  shadowy  wings  of  despair 
E'er  blight  the  sad  spirit  by  hovering  there? 
Far  better  to  think  beyond  life's  troubled  sea 
There  waits  the  sweet  welcome :    "  Oh !  come  unto  me. ' ' 


JOHN  W.  ROBB,  JR. 163 

'Tis  the  buoy  of  hope  that  will  ride  on  the  blast, 
And  anchor  in  safety  beyond  them  at  last, 
Where  no  more  the  chill  breath  of  the  gale  shall  pur- 
sue, 

Nor  clouds  wrap  the  day's  shining  glory  from  view; 
Then  fulfilled  the  glad  spirit  that  promise  shall  see: 
"Ye  weary  and  laden,  oh!  come  unto  me." 


164  EMMETT  L.  ROSS 


EMMETT  L.  ROSS 

This  author  was  for  many  years  the  editor  of  a  paper  at 
Canton.  The  poem  here  reproduced  was  written  in  January, 
1879,  after  the  epidemic  of  yellow  fever  in  1878. 

The  Lieutenant  Benners  referred  to  in  this  poem  was  in  the 
service  of  the  United  States,  fell  a  victim  to  the  fever,  and 
died  while  trying  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  those  already 
stricken  by  the  plague. 

The  Solid  South 

AWAKE!  awake,  0  sluggish  Muse! 

If  only  for  a  while. 
And  tune  my  harp  to  Homer's  lyre, — 

Blind  bard  of  Scio's  Isle, — 
That  I  may  sing  in  fitting  words 

Songs  of  enduring  praise 
To  willing  hands  and  noble  hearts 

Who  in  affliction's  days, 
Poured  out  upon  our  sunny  land 

Their  stores  of  love  and  wealth 
That   brought   surcease   to   pestilence, 

And  wooed  back  joyous  health. 

The  Solid  South  pours  out  her  heart  this  bright,  this 

glad  New  Year, 
And  sends  a  message  to  all  men,  and  nations  far  and 

near; 


EMMETT  L.  ROSS 165 

A  message  draped  with  willow  leaves,  bedewed  with 

holy  tears 
Of  widowed  wife  and  orphaned  child,  sad  youth, 

and  tottering  years; 
A  message  from  her  palaces,  from  cottage,  hill,  and 

glade, 
From  council  halls,  from  field  and  farm,  and  busy 

marts  of  trade; 
A  message  freighted  down  with  love,  with  gratitude 

as  great 
As  ever  waked  a  soul  to  arms,  or  bared  a  breast  for 

State; 
A  love  that  throbs  in  every  heart,  a  gratitude  that 

thrills, 
And  breaks  its  bounds  like  waves  that  rush  to  sea 

from  swelling  rills. 

Some  mother  bending  o'er  the  tomb  that  holds  her 

cherished  boy, 
Some  stricken  wife  beside  the  grave  where  rests  her 

girlhood's  joy, 
Some  maiden  weeping  o'er  the  mound  where  troth 

and  lover  lie, 

Press  back  their  sobs  and  in  their  prayers  call  bless- 
ings from  on  high 
Down  on  the  heads,  the  hearts,  the  homes,  of  those 

whose  helping  hand 
Brought  succor  to  our  stricken  ones  and  saved  our 

suffering  land. 
The  Southron's  hand  that  erstwhile  drew  his  saber 

from  its  sheath 


166  EMMETT  L.  ROSS 

And  dipped  its  blade  in  brother's  blood  to  win  the 
patriot's  wreath, 

Now  presses  on  a  throbbing  breast  in  pledge  to  self 
and  God 

That  Peace  and  Love  shall  ever  reign  where  hostile 
armies  trod. 

The  fires  of  hate  that  lit  his  soul,  nor  sword  nor 
gun  could  quell, — 

These  yield  to  Love's  bewitching  wiles,  to  Love's  all- 
conquering  spell: 

Deep  in  his  heart  is  writ  the  name,  the  pure  un- 
selfish zeal 

Of  him  who  dared  the  Saffron  Foe,  to  conquer  woe 
with  weal. 

More  holy  task  was  never  borne  than  that  brave 
Benner  tried; 

No  loss  more  great,  no  grief  more  deep,  than  when 
brave  Benner  died; 

No  gift  in  all  the  bounty  sent,  more  rich,  more  rare 
in  price, 

No  words  can  compensate  the  boon, — our  Nation's 
sacrifice ! 

Ten  million  grateful  hearts  enshrine  his  memory  in 
their  breast, 

Ten  million  tongues  his  deed  extol,  invoke  his  spir- 
it's rest; 

A   Solid   South   reveres  his  name,   his  valor  unde- 
filed  — 

One  common  country's  love  will  shield  the  Martyr's 
wife  and  child. 


EMMETT    L.    ROSS 167 

O  Great  Jehovah,  King  of  Kings! 

Whose  mighty  hands  control 
The  fate  of  worlds,  the  works  of  men, 

And  Time's  unceasing  roll, — 
Let  blessings  follow  in  the  path 

Of  Sorrow's  fading  tread; 
Let  comfort  come  to  those  who  mourn 

And  weep  above  their  dead; 
Pour  down  unmeasured  blessings,  Lord, 

Thy  choicest  and  thy  best, 
To  crown  our  brothers  of  the  North 

And  far-off  East  and  West; 
Blot  out  the  lines  that  would  divide 

And  desecrate  our  sod; 
Bind  close  our  States;  give  us  one  law, 

One  Union,  and  one  God ! 


168      ERON  OPHA  ROWLAND 


ERON  OPHA  ROWLAND 

Mrs.  Eowland  is  the  wife  of  Dr.  Dunbar  Eowland,  who  has 
charge  of  the  Mississippi  Department  of  Archives  and  History. 
She  has  written  many  poems.  She  is  a  native  of  the  state,  and 
makes  her  home  at  Jackson. 


A  Prayer  for  1918 

BE  with  us,  Lord,  we  need  Thy  guidance  sorely 
To  point  the  rugged  pathway  this  New  Year; 

The  road  is  steep  and  wrapped  in  blinding  shadows, 
And  but  for  Thee  we  would  be  filled  with  fear. 

Grant  that  we  bring  Thee  in  our  daily  service 
No  gift  unworthy  of  our  creed  and  race, 

And  that  our  candles  may  be  ever  lighted 
At  the  clear  flame  of  Thy  pure  altar-place. 

Be  with  our  men  who  fight  for  Truth  and  Justice, — 
Their  beautiful,  clear  faces  shine  so  bright 

That  our  poor  eyes  can  scarcely  stand  the  glory 
Of  those  who  give  themselves  to  die  for  Eight. 

Be  very  near,  0  God.     Death  lurks  so  closely; 

Though  they  are  Thine,  they  are  to  us  most  dear; 
Fill  them  with  strength  to  meet  the  foe  in  battle, 

And  in  dark  hours  take  away  their  fear. 


ERON  OPHA  ROWLAND 169 

Be  with  our  women ;  with  a  firm,  pure  purpose 
Before  their  tasks,  oh,  may  they  stand  alway; 

Help  them  to  keep  the  hearthstone  warm  and  worthy 
Of  that  high  cause  for  which  men  die  to-day. 

Be  with  them,  Lord, — the  brave  and  saintly  mothers, 
As  with  hearts  breaking   'neath  their  calm,  pure 
eyes 

They  climb  Calvary's  rough  pathway,  bringing 
Their  beautiful,  their  own  in  sacrifice. 

Be  with  us  in  the  springtime  of  our  sowing; 

Let  no  seed  fall  on  unresponsive  ground; 
Grant  that  of  wheat  and  corn,  to  feed  the  hungry 

Of  earth, — a  full  sufficiency  be  found. 

Bind  closer,  Lord,  each  allied  heart  and  spirit ; 

On  land  and  sea  their  noble  strength  increase; 
That  they  may  free  mankind  from  dark  oppression 

And  save  Thy  world  for  Liberty  and  Peace! 


Biloxi 

BILOXI!  other  tongues  may  sing 

Of  your  rich  stores  and  fresher  bays, 
But  all  along  your  streets  I  feel 

The  witchery  of  older  days; 
Across  yon  blue  gulf's  restless  waves 

The   white-winged  questing  ships  advance, 
And  from  each  masthead  proudly  streams 

The  lillied  banners  of  fair  France. 


170  ERON  OPHA  ROWLAND 

Far-led  by  dreams  that  to  the  last 
Bright  fantasy  have  been  fulfilled, 

Bold  heroes  came  with  hope  elate, 

New  thrones  and  empires  vast  to  build: 

Here  by  this  sheltered,  land-locked  bay, 

A  kingdom  great,  whose  realms  reached  where 
The  Rockies  rear  their  cold  white  brows, 

Was  planted  'mid  wild  flowers  fair; 
Here  where  a  savage  people's  hope 

But  dimly  lit  the  paths  they  trod, 
Diviner  love  and  holier  faith 

Raised  altars  to  the  living  God. 

Through  risk  and  loss  the  dream  was  hugged; 

With  snare  and  lure  and  mock  it  spread 
Its  mirage  fair  for  those  who  won, 

For  others  feast  and  vintage  red; 
But  every  high,  heroic  deed 

Of  those  who  starved  and  perished  here 
Makes  sweeter  still  a  people's  hope 

Of  peace  and  freedom  void  of  fear. 

Time  has,  in  vain,  0  City,  sought 

With  veer  and  shift  and  brazen  glare 
To  dim  the  glory  of  your  youth, 

To  raze  its  wall  and  temple  fair; 
But  while  these  waves  break  on  your  shores 

Your  legends  will  delight  the  heart, 
Your  venturous,  chivalrous  days 

Be  of  yourself  the  nobler  part. 


ERON  OPHA  ROWLAND  171 

Men  will  not  let  your  glory  fade, 

Your  olden  charm  still  binds  them  fast; 
Far  dearer  than  rare  gems  they  hold 

The  ancient  emblems  of  your  past; 
Your  history  lives  in  every  bloom 

That  stars  your  vales  and  shores  and  meres; 
Its  luster  will  forever  gild 

The  garnered  treasures  of  your  years. 


172  IRWIN  RUSSELL 


IRWIN  RUSSELL 

Born  at  Port  Gibson,  Claiborne  county,  in  1853,  Eussell  died 
at  New  Orleans  in  1879.  Sadly  afflicted  physically,  his  life 
was  a  pitiable  and  forlorn  one.  He  was  educated  at  a  Catholic 
school  at  St.  Louis;  went  to  New  York  to  engage  in  literary 
work;  returned  South,  and  spent  his  last  years  in  New  Orleans. 
After  his  death  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published;  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  it  contains  all  his  verses. 

Nebuchadnezzar 

You,  Nebuchadnezzah,  whoa,  sab! 
Whar  is  you  try  in '  to  go,  sab? 
I'd  hab  you  fur  to  know,  sab, 

I's  a-holdin'  ob   de  lines. 
You  better  stop  dat  prancin'; 
You's  pow'ful  fond  ob  dancin', 
But  I'll  bet  my  yeabs  advanein' 

Dat  I'll  cure  you  ob  yo'  sbines. 

Look  heab,  mule!  Better  min'  out; 
Fus'  t'ing  you  know  you'll  fin'  out 
How  quick  I'll  wear  dis  line  out 

On  your  ugly,  stubbo'n  back. 
You  needn't  try  to  steal  up 
And  lif  dat  precious  beel  up; 
You's  got  to  plow  dis  fiel'  up, — 

You  has,  sab,  fur  a  fac'. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL  173 

Dar,  dat's  de  way  to  do  it. 
He's  comin'  right  down  to  it; 
Jes  watch,  him  plowin'  troo  it. 

Dis  nigger  ain  't  no  fool. 
Some  folks  dey  would   V  beat  him; 
Now  dat  would  only  heat  him, — 
I  know  jes  how  to  treat  him: 

You  mas'  reason  wid  a  mule. 

He  minds  me  like  a  nigger. 
If  he  wuz  only  bigger 
He'd  fotch  a  mighty  figger, 

He  would,  I  tell  you.    Yes,  sah. 
See  how  he  keeps  a-cliekin'. 
He's  as  gentle  as  a  chickin' 
And  nebber  thinks  o'  kickin', — 

Whoa,  dar,  Nebuchadnezzah ! 

Is  dis  heah  me,  or  not  me? 
Or  is  de  debbil  got  me? 
Wuz  dat  a  cannon  shot  me? 

Hab  I  laid  heah  more'n  a  week? 
Dat  mule  do  kick  amazin'. 
De  beast  wuz  sp'iled  in  raisin' — 
But  now  I  'spect  he's  grazin' 

On  de  oder  side  de  creek. 


174  IRWIN  RUSSELL 


Selling  a  Dog 

H'YAR,  Pot-liquor!     What  you  at?     You  heah  me 

callin'  you? 
H'yar,    sah!      Come    an'    tell    dis    little    gemmen 

howdy-do ! 

Dar,  sah,  ain't  dat  puppy  jes  as  fat  as  he  kin  roll? 
Maybe  you  won't  b'liebe  it,  but  he's  only  six  mon's 

ol' I 

'Coon  dog?    Lord!  young  marster,  he's  jes  at  'em  all 

de  while; 

7  b'liebe  dat  he  kin  smell  a  'coon  fur  half-a-mile. 
I  don't  like  to  sell  him,  fur  he's  wuf  his  weight  in 

gol'; 
If  you  didn't  want  him,  sah,  he  nebber  should  be  sol'. 

If  you  takes  him  off  wid  you,  I'll  feel  like  I  wuz  lost. 
He's  de  bes'  young  fightin'-dog  I  ebber  come  acrost. 
Jes  look  at  dem  eyes,  young  marster;  what  a  sab- 

bage  face! — 
He  won't  let  no  stranger  nigger  come  about  de  place. 

You  know  Henry  Wilson's  Bob,  dat  whipped  your 

fader's  Dan? 
Pot-liquor  jes  chucked  dat  dog  so  bad  he  couldn't 

stan'! 
Well,  sah,  if  you  wants  him,  now  I'll  tell  you  what 

I'll  do  — 
You  <?an  hab  him  fur  a  dollar,  seein'  how  it's  you. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL  175 

Now,  marster  Will,  you  knows  it, — he's  wuf  mo'n 

dat,  a  heap; 

R'al'y,  I's  a-doin'  wrong  to  let  him  go  so  cheap. 
Don't  you  tell  nobody,  now,  what  wujz  de  price  you 

paid — 
My  ol'  woman  gwine  to  gib  me  fits,  sah,  I's  afraid! 

T'anks  you,  sah!     Good-mornin'  sah!     You  tell  yo' 

ma,  fur  me, 

I  has  got  de  fines'  turkeys  dat  she  ebber  see; 
Dey  is  jes  as  good  as  any  pusson  ebber  eat, 
If  she  wants  a  gobbler,  let  her  sen'  to  uncle  Pete. 

Dar!  I's  done  got  rid  ob  dat  ar  wretched  dog  at  las  M 
Drownin'  time  wuz  comin'  fur  him  mighty  precious 

fas'! 
Sol'  him  fur  a  dollar, — well!     An'  goodness  knows 

de  pup 
Isn  't  wuf  de  powder  it  'd  take  to  blow  him  up ! 


The  Origin  of  the  Banjo 

Go  'way,  fiddle!  folks  is  tired  or  hearing  you 
a-squawkin'; 

Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters! — don't  you  heah  de 
banjo  talkin'? 

About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  gwine  to  lecter — la- 
dies, listen! — 

About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is 
missin': 


176 IRWIN  RUSSELL 

"Dar's  gwine  to  be  a'  oberflow,"  said  Noah,  lookin' 
solemn — 

Fur  Noah  tuk  the  Herald,  an'  he  read  de  ribber 
column, — 

An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'arin'  timber- 
patches, 

An'  lowed  he  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the 
steamah  Natchez. 

01'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin'  an'  a-chippin'  an'  a-sawin': 
An'   all   de  wicked  neighbors  kep'   a-laughin'   an' 

a-pshawin'; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine 

to  happen: 
An'   forty  days   an'   forty   nights   de  rain  it  kep' 

a-drappin'. 

Now,  Noah  had  done  cotched  a  lot  ob  ebry  sort  ob 

beas  'es, — 

Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces! 
He  had  a  Morgan  colt  an'  seberal  head  ob  Jarsey 

cattle, — 
An'  druv  'em  'board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heard  de 

thunder  rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain! — it  come  so  awful 

hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee; 
De  people  all  wuz  drownded  out,  'cep'  Noah  an'  de 

critters, 
An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat, — an'  one  to 

mix  de  bitters. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL  177 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an9  a-sailin'! 
De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palm'; 
De  sarpints  hissed;  de  painters  yelled;  tell,  whut 

wid  all  de  fussin', 
You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  'roun' 

an'  cussin'. 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on  de 

packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop,  an'  c'u'dn't  stan' 

de  racket; 
An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steamed  some  wood 

an'  bent  it, 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made, — de  fust  dat  wuz 

invented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on;  made  bridge  an' 

screws,  an'  aprin; 
An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck — 'twuz  berry  long  an' 

tap'rin'; 
He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to 

ring  it; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz:    How  wuz  he  gwine 

to  string  it? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin'; 
De  ha'r's  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong, — des  fit  fur 

banjo-stringin'; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day-dinner 

graces ; 
An'  sorted  ob    'em  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to 


178  IRWIN  RUSSELL 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig, — 'twuz  "Neb- 

ber  min'  de  wedder," — 
She  soun'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  to- 

gedder ; 
Some  went  to  pattin';  some  to  dancin':  Noah  called 

de  figgers; 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob 

niggers ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time — it's  mighty  strange — dere's  not 

de  slightes'  showin' 

Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin': 
An'  curi's,  too,  dat  nigger's  ways:  his  people  neb- 

ber  los'   'em — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de  nigger, — dar's  de  banjo  an' 

de  'possum! 

An  Exchange 

DEATH  seizeth  not  the  soul; 
When  life  is  past  control, — 

No  power  left  to  hold  it, 

When  we  have  lost  or  sold  it, — 
Why  care  we  for  the  loss  of  lives 

Of  suffering  and  sinning, 
Well  knowing  that,  for  what  survives, 

A  life  is  just  beginning? 

So,  when  our  day  arrives, 
Why  cling  we  to  our  lives? 

Though  they  be  clean  and  fair, 

Or  stained  with  sin  and  care, 


IRWIN  RUSSELL  179 

The  bargain  cannot  be  adverse; 

An  old  life  for  a  new  one; 
Death  cannot  make  a  false  soul  worse, 

Or  ever  change  a  true  one. 


i8o      EDMUND  G.  SHANNON 


EDMUND  G.  SHANNON 

Mr.  Shannon  is  a  lawyer  who  makes  his  home  in  the  city  of 
Jackson.  In  1912  he  published  a  volume  of  verse,  "  Along  the 
High  way, "  The  Neale  Publishing  Company,  New  York. 

Two  Little  Maids 

LAST  year  four  stockings  hung  at  the  hearth, 
Where  now  there  hang  but  two; 

For  two  in  the  attic  are  folded  away, 
Each  in  its  little  shoe. 

Up  in  the  attic,  cold  and  alone, 
There's  a  doll  with  a  broken  leg, 

That  stares  in  the  dark  at  a  little  blue  dress 
Hung  on  a  wooden  peg. 

One  little  red  dress  doffed  for  the  night 
To  be  donned  on  Christmas  day; 

Two  little  knees  at  the  bedside  bent, 
Two  chubby  hands  folded  to  pray. 

One  little  girl  lisping  her  prayers, 

Looking  up  with  eyes  of  brown, 
One  little  girl  that  heavenward  went, 

With  blue  eyes  looking  down. 


BARNARD  SHIPP  181 


BARNARD  SHIPP 

Born  in  Natchez  in  1813,  Mr.  Shipp  died  in  Florida  a  few 
years  ago.  He  was  educated  in  Vermont,  and  adopted  the 
profession  of  teaching.  He  was  the  author  of  two  volumes: 
"Fame  and  Other  Poems "  and  "The  Progress  of  Freedom 
and  Other  Poems/'  the  one  published  in  1843,  the  other  in 
1852.  He  was  also  the  author,  or  compiler,  of  two  or  more 
prose  works. 

Concluding  Lines  of  Poem  "Reflections 
on  the  Year  1848" 

MAY  this  New  Year  to  earth  new  blessings  bring, 
New  hopes   and   pleasures  as  the  buds   of  spring; 
And  these  new  fruits  for  future  nations  bear, 
Who  shall  our  triumphs  and  our  bounties  share. 
May  hallowed  Peace  her  heavenly  influence  shed, 
Where'er  the  footsteps  of  our  race  shall  tread; 
And  teach  mankind  there's  bliss  for  mortals  here, 
Which  Heaven  will  sanction  in  their  wise  career; 
And  still  impart  with  an  unbounded  grace 
To  all  the  offspring  of  the  human  race. 
May  Wisdom  guide  and  Justice  rule  the  world; 
The  sword  be  sheathed,  the  bloody  standard  furled; 
Fair  Commerce  prosper,  and  productive  Art ; 
New  cities  rise,  and  flourish  every  mart; 
Young  Freedom's  reign  to  earth's  extreme  extend; 
Oppression  cease,  and  wars  for  ever  end! 


i8a  J.  AUGUSTINE  SIGNAIGO 


J.  AUGUSTINE  SIGNAIGO 

For  several  years  following  the  Civil  War  Mr.  Signaigo  was 
prominent  as  an  editor  in  Mississippi.  Many  of  his  poems  were 
published  in  the  Memphis  papers.  His  home  was  in  Grenada, 
where  he  was  editor  of  the  local  newspaper. 


On  the  Heights  of  Mission  Ridge 

WHEN  the  foes,  in  conflict  heated, 

Battled  over  road  and  hridge, 
While  Bragg  sullenly  retreated 

From  the  heights  of  Mission  Ridge, — 
There,  amid  the  pines  and  wildwood, 

Two  opposing  colonels  fell, 
Who  had  schoolmates  been  in  childhood, 

And  had  loved  each  other  well. 


There,  amid  the  roar  and  rattle, 

Facing  Havoc's  fiery  breath, 
Met  the  wounded  two  in  battle, 

In  the  agonies  of  death. 
But  they  saw  each  other  reeling 

On  the  dead  and  dying  men, 
And  the  old  time,  full  of  feeling, 

Came  upon  them  once  again. 


J.  AUGUSTINE  SIGNAIGO  183 

When  that  night  the  moon  came  creeping, 

"With  its  gold  streaks,  o'er  the  slain, 
She  beheld  two  soldiers,  sleeping, 

Free  from  every  earthly  pain. 
Close  beside  the  mountain  heather, 

Where  the  rocks  obscure  the  sand, 
They  had  died,  it  seems,  together, 

As  they  clasped  each  other's  hand. 


184  J.  F.  SIMMONS 


J.  F.  SIMMONS 

Mr.  Simmons  was  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Sardis,  where 
he  was  engaged  in  newspaper  work.  For  a  time  he  held  the 
office  of  Chancellor.  He  was  the  author  of  two  books  of  verse, 
"The  Welded  Link  and  Other  Poems "  and  "Kural  Lyrics. " 

The  Undecorated  Graves 

AH,  many  a  fallen  hero  sleeps 

Among  the  valleys,  hills,  and  plains, 

O'er  whom  no  eye  fond  vigil  keeps, 
Though  memory's  casket  still  retains 

Each  well  loved  name,  and  o'er  it  weeps, 
And  will  while  love  or  life  remains. 

When  springtime,  with  its  fragrance,  comes, 
And  smiling  woods  and  fields  are  clad 

In  brightest  buds  and  sweetest  blooms, 
And  nature  joyous  seems  and  glad, 

Naught  then  should  darken  loving  homes; 
Yet  lingers  still  one  mem'ry  sad: 

We  seek  the  spot  where  loved  ones  sleep — 
Our  cherished,  unforgotten  dead, 

Whose  mem'ries  still  we  fondly  keep, 

And  o'er  them  sweetest  blossoms  spread, 

Which  tell  of  love,  sincere  and  deep, 
For  each  one  in  his  lowly  bed. 


J.  F.  SIMMONS 185 

And  then  we  turn,  with  deep-drawn  sigh, 
"With  mind  oppressed  and  saddened  heart, 

With  laden  breath  and  drooping  eye, 
From  which  the  heavy  tear-drops  start, 

And  think  of  other  friends  who  lie 
In  graves  unknown  and  far  apart. 

We  think  of  those,  and  think  with  pain, — 
Which  time  has  given  calmer  tone, — 

That,  though  they  fell  on  hill  and  plain 
Where  they  their  heroism  had  shown, — 

Fell  bravely,   'mong  the  hapless  slain, — 
Their  graves,  alas,  are  all  unknown! 

In  summer  morning's  misty  light, 
While  dew  the  tender  herbage  laves, 

Or  through  the  spring  day,  softly  bright, 
While  corn  its  silken  tassels  waves, 

The  cattle  in  their  dumb  delight, 
Browse  o'er  those  long-neglected  graves. 

And  yet  the  sleepers  all  were  true; 

No  truer,  braver  men  than  they; 
Brave  those  who  wore  the  Union  blue 

And  those  who  wore  the  Southern  gray; 
Though  we  may  know  not, — never  knew, — 

Where  they  are  sleeping,  far  away. 

My  loving  muse  would,  for  those  braves, — 

For  all,  and  not  my  friends  alone, 
Glad  that  one  banner  only  waves 

And  fratricidal  war  is  done, — 
A  tribute  spread  upon  the  graves 

Undecorated  and  unknown. 


i86  ALBERTA  ODELL  SMITH 


ALBERTA  ODELL  SMITH 

Mrs.  Smith  is  a  resident  of  Jackson,  in  which  city  she  is 
prominent  both  in  social  life  and  in  the  various  activities  of 
the  Women's  Clubs. 

The  Mother 

I  WONDER  if  the  Virgin  wore 

A  soft  and  faded  gown, 
I  wonder  if  her  eyes  were  blue, 

And  if  her  hair  was  brown; 

I  wonder  if  she  sat  and  held 

Her  child  upon  her  breast, 
And  gazed  with  eyes  so  sad  and  sweet, 

Upon  the  golden  West; 

I  wonder  if  she  thought  so  deep 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear 
The  other  children  playing  'round, 

Though  they  were  very  near; 

I  wonder  if  she  pressed  her  lips 

Upon  His  shining  hair, 
As  if  she  thought  that  she  could  hide 

Their  gentle  trembling  there; 


ALBERTA  ODELL  SMITH 


I  wonder  if  she  sat  quite  still 
Out  where  the  air  was  sweet, 

As  mother  sometimes  sits  and  holds 
Our  Ted  with  twisted  feet. 


I  cannot  see  Sweet  Mary's  face 
Although  I  try  my  best ; 

I  only  see  how  Mother  looks, 
With  Teddy  on  her  breast. 


i88  STEVE  W.  SMITH 


STEVE  W.  SMITH 

This  author — a  Mississippian  by  birth — died  at  Guntown  in 
1917.  He  was  a  teacher.  His  volume  of  verse,  "  Rhymes, "  was 
published  in  1912. 


My  Four  Little  Scamps 

WHEN  came  to  me,  in  years  gone  by, 
A  jewel  bearing  Heaven's  stamp, 

My  heart  rejoiced  as  I  looked  on 
Each  beautiful  little  scamp. 

During  the  time  they've  been  with  me, 
Wherever  I've  pitched  my  camps, 

I've  smiled  their  happiness  to  see, 
And  loved  my  four  little  scamps. 

The  dark  clouds  are  over  me  now, 
Soon  must  I,  like  earth-tired  tramps, 

To  the  mighty  King  of  Shadows  bow 
And  leave  my  four  little  scamps. 

When,  at  the  close  of  my  life's  day, 
The  Death  Angel  lights  the  lamps, 

With  my  last,  dying  breath  I'll  pray: 
"God  bless  my  four  little  scamps." 


OLIVIA  TULLY  THOMAS  189 


OLIVIA  TULLY  THOMAS 

The  best  known  poem  by  Olivia  Tully  Thomas,  ''A  Southern 
Kepublic, ' '  is  too  long  for  insertion  here.  It  was  very  popular 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  poem  here  published  first  appeared 
in  the  Grenada  Picket. 


"When  Peace  Returns" 

WHEN  "war  has  smoothed  his  wrinkled  front," 

And  meek-eyed  peace  returning, 
Has  brightened  hearts  that  long  were  wont 

To  sigh  in  grief  and  mourning — 
How  blissful  then  will  be  the  day 

When,  from  the  wars  returning, 
The  weary  soldier  wends  his  way 

To  dear  ones  that  are  yearning, 


To  clasp  in  true  love's  fond  embrace, 

To  gaze  with  looks  so  tender 
Upon  the  war-worn  form  and  face 

Of  Liberty's  defender; 
To  count  with  pride  each  cruel  scar, 

That  mars  the  manly  beauty, 
Of  him  who  proved  so  brave  in  war, 

So  beautiful  in  duty. 


igo  OLIVIA  TULLY  THOMAS 

And  when,  again,  in  Southern  bowers 

The  ray  of  peace  is  shining, 
Her  maidens  gather  fairest  flowers, 

And  honor's  wreaths  are  twining, 
To  bind  the  brows  victorious 

On  many  a  field  so  gory, 
Whose  names,  renowned  and  glorious, 

Shall  live  in  song  and  story, 

Then  will  affection's  tear  be  shed, 

And  pity's,  joy  restraining, 
For  those,  the  lost,  lamented  dead, 

Who  are  beyond  our  plaining; 
They  fell  in  manhood's  prime  and  might: 

And  we  should  not  weep  the  story 
That  tells  of  Fame,  a  sacred  light, 

Above  each  grave  of  glory! 


ADA  REEDY  VANCE        igi 


ADA  REEDY  VANCE 

Mrs.  Vance  was  born  in  Alabama,  but  in  childhood  moved  to 
Mississippi,  making  her  home  at  Lexington.  Sketches  of  her 
may  be  found  in  "Women  of  the  South  Distinguished  in  Liter- 
ature/' by  Mary  Forrest,  and  in  Davidson's  "Living  Writers 
of  the  South. " 

Death  by  the  Wayside 

THIS  life  is  stranger  than  the  tales  we  read, 

Or  dreams  that  poets  have  ere  yet  they  sleep ; 
If  truth  were  written  we  would  have  no  need 

To  turn  to  fiction  when  we  wish  to  weep. 
If  we  might  place  the  ear  close  to  each  heart 

And  hear  the  dull  pulsation  grief  has  stirred, 
No  swift  compulsion  enmity  might  start 

Could  force  the  lips  to  frame  an  unkind  word. 


You  may  have  tears, — I  do  not  ask  them  now; 

Enough  of  these  have  been  already  shed 
For  him  who  wore  perchance  as  fair  a  brow 

As  ever  found  repose  amid  the  dead. 
His  was  a  face  that  one  would  strive  to  read, 

And  then  rejoice  to  find  the  task  in  vain; 
Because  a  failure  brought  the  pleasant  need 

Of  looking  on  those  features  once  again. 


ig2  ADA  REEDY  VANCE 

And  yet  when  joy  or  passion's  tide  ran  high 

There  was  a  sudden  flush — a  fever  breath; 
A  restless  flashing  of  the  brilliant  eye 

That  told  of  madness,  or  an  early  death; 
That  something  which  the  heart  cannot  define, 

But  knowing  fears, — and  fearing  loves  the  more. 
We  know  a  heart  in  love  with  things  divine 

Oft  finds  the  earth  no  hospitable  shore. 


But  to  my  story,  and  it  should  be  brief 

As  that  young  life  it  dares  to  speak  of  here, 
Or  yet  despair  may  whisper  through  a  grief 

That  long  since  shed  its  last  remaining  tear. 
He  left  his  home  and  sought  another  sky, 

Perhaps  as  blue,  but,  oh !  not  half  so  kind, 
As  one  that  held  its  stars  serenely  high 

Above  the  troubled  hearts  that  watched  behind. 


But  from  the  depths  of  that  unholy  wild 

Unto  his  home  he  never  came  again, 
For  Fate  pursued  the  footsteps  of  her  child, 

And  eyes  that  watched  his  coming,  watched  in 

vain. 
In  the  cold  bosom  of  that  stranger  land 

There  is  a  grave  from  other  graves  apart; 
On  God's  green  earth  there  is  a  blood-red  hand 

Stained  with  the  crimson  of  that  high  young 
heart. 


ADA  REEDY  VANCE  193 

And  this  is  all.     The  fearful  cloud  of  wrath 

That  folds  within  the  lightning's  fiery  breath, 
With  burning  eye  marks  out  its  downward  path, 

And  in  one  moment  scatters  it  with  death. 
The  stars  may  come  with  evening's  tranquil  air; 

And  beam  as  brightly  as  their  wont  before, 
But  from  some  fragrant  bower  we've  reared  with 
care 

Is  snatched  a  fragrant  flower  that  blooms  no 
more. 

0  ye  who  have  a  brother, — lover, — friend, 

Faint  on  the  threshold  of  an  unknown  land, 
If  ye  may  come  and  o'er  that  death-couch  bend, 

And  close  the  eyes  and  fold  the  nerveless  hand, 
Ye  have  no  cause  for  tears.    He  might  have  died, 

His  fair  brow  pressed  to  some  unholy  sod, 
With  none  to  weep,  and  none  to  watch  beside, — 

Save  one  whose  steel  had  sent  that  soul  to  God. 


194         JEANNETTE  H.  WALWORTH 


JEANNETTE  H.  WALWORTH 

The  author  of  the  following  poem  was  born  in  Mississippi  in 
1838.  She  died  in  1917.  She  wrote  several  novels  and  books 
of  sketches. 

My  Litany 

FROM  envy  of  those  whom  God  has  blest 
With  all  that  this  world  can  give  at  its  best, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  vision  so  dim  it  can  see  but  a  cloud 
Enwrapping  the  world  in  a  sinister  shroud, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  hatred  and  malice, — Cain's  dark  brood, 
Who  can  see  nothing  bright,  know  nothing  good, — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  a  heart  grown  hard  with  struggle  long 
In  the  battle  of  life,  which  is  to  the  strong, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  a  folding  of  hands  and  a  standing  still 
To  whimper  feebly  about  " God's  will," 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 


JEANNETTE  H.  WALWORTH          195 

From  watching  afar, — while  the  race  is  run, 
The  race  that  my  soul  and  I  could  have  won, — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  the  blighting  of  hopes  in  life's  broken  plan, 
From  saying  "I  can't,"  when  I  had  said  "I  can," 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me. 

From  a  looking  backward  with  cowardly  mien 
To  the  endless  pain  of  what  might  have  been, — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  me! 


ig6  WILLIAM  WARD 


WILLIAM  WARD 

William  Ward  was  born  in  Connecticut  in  1823,  and  died  at 
Macon,  Noxubee  county,  in  1887.  He  came  to  Mississippi 
before  he  was  grown;  lived  for  a  time  at  Columbus,  and  in 
1850,  or  thereabouts,  went  to  Macon,  where  he  made  his  home 
until  his  death.  In  1870  he  became  the  editor  of  a  paper  at 
Macon,  The  Beacon;  his  connection  with  this  paper  continuing 
until  he  died.  For  a  period  that  covered  many  years  he  con- 
tributed poems  to  the  leading  papers  both  North  and  South. 

The  Dying  Year 

THE  year  is  dying  as  the  dolphin  dies, 

Not  with  the  ashen  hue, 
Death's  signal  color,  ere  the  fading  eyes 

See  dimly,  darkly  through 
The  waxen  lids.     No  pallor  creeps  along 
The  earth  and  sky;  no  tone 
Floats  through  the  air  like  a  funeral  song, 

Or  like  a  dying  groan. 

The  warm  rich  sunlight  gilds  the  autumn  trees 

Whose  gorgeous  tints  are  spread, 
Each  toning  each,  and  fringed  with  heraldries 

Of  purple,  gold,  and  red. 
The  crimson  myrtle  burns  upon  its  stem 

As  though  a  heart  of  fire, 
The  yellow  maple,  like  an  oriflamme, 

Lifts  up  its  banner  higher. 


WILLIAM  WARD  197 

The  oak  is  rich  with  russet,  bronze,  and  brown, 

And  there  a  purple  crest 
Gleams  o'er  the  forest  like  a  lifted  crown 

Some  color-god  has  blest. 
Loosed  by  the  frost,  the  sumac's  pallid  leaves 

Like  yellow  lance-heads  fall, 
While  lights  and  shadows  ever  shifting  weave 

A  net-work  over  all. 

0  queenly  autumn !  though  you  proudly  lead 

The  old  year  to  its  death, 
A  glory  comes  and  goes  where'er  you  tread 

With  every  dying  breath, 
The  year  is  dying, — dying  as  a  king 

Dies  in  his  purple.     Now 
His  shroud  is  woven,  and  its  colors  fling 

A  glory  o'er  his  brow. 


ig8        CATHERINE  ANNE  WARFIELD 


CATHERINE  ANNE  WARFIELD 

Mrs.  War  field  was  born  in  Natchez  in  1816,  and  died  near 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  1877.  With  her  sister,  Eleanor  Percy 
Lee,  she  published  two  books  of  verse — "The  Wife  of  Leon 
and  Other  Poems7'  and  "The  Indian  Chamber  and  Other 
Poems. ' '  During  the  Civil  War  and  in  the  years  that  followed, 
Mrs.  Warfield  wrote  many  stirring  Southern  poems.  Between 
1860  and  the  time  of  her  death  she  published  ten  or  more 
novels. 


I  Have  Seen  This  Place  Before 

I  HAVE  seen  this  place  before — 

'Tis  a  strange,  mysterious  truth; 
Yet  my  foot  hath  never  pressed  this  shore, 

In  childhood  or  in  youth; 
I  know  these  ruins  gray, 

I  know  these  cloisters  dim — 
My  soul  hath  been  in  these  walls  away, 

When  slumber  chains  each  limb. 


In  a  dream,  a  midnight  dream, 
I  have  stood  upon  this  heath, 

And  beyond  this  blue  and  winding  stream, 
And  the  lonely  vale  beneath ; 


CATHERINE  ANNE  WARFIELD         199 

The  same  dark  sky  was  there, 
"With  its  bleak  shade  on  my  brow, 

The  same  deep  feeling  of  despair 
That  clings  about  me  now. 

Friend,   'tis  a  fearful  spell, 

That  binds  these  ruins  gray; 
Why  came  my  spirit  here  to  dwell, 

When  my  frame  was  far  away? 
Can  the  wild  and  soaring  soul 

Go  out  on  its  eagle  sweep, 
And  traverse  earth  without  control, 

While  the  frame  is  wrapped  in  sleep? 

Hath  memory  caught  a  gleam 

From  a  life  whose  term  is  o'er, 
And  borne  it  back  in  that  mystic  dream — 

Say,  have  I  lived  before? 
Or  was  prophetic  power 

To  that  midnight  vision  lent? 
Is  my  fate  bound  up  in  this  ruined  tower? 

Speak!  thou  art  eloquent. 


200          JENNIE  NOONAN  WHELESS 


JENNIE  NOONAN  WHELESS 

Mrs.  Wheless,  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  * '  The 
Wayside  Flower/7  is  a  resident  of  Yazoo  City. 


Faint-Hearted 

THEY  linger  out  on  the  vine-wreathed  porch, 

Where  clambering  roses  grow, 
Where  the  moonlight  slips  through  dancing  leaves, 

With  the  shadows  that  come  and  go; 
While  the  night  is  rare  with  the  jasmine's  breath, 

And  gently  the  breezes  blow. 

He  envies  the  zephyrs  that  boldly  touch 

The  waves  of  her  soft,  brown  hair, 
And  the  moonbeam  seeking  her  rounded  cheek, 

Caressing  the  dimple  there; 
But  he  only  says  the  day  has  been  long, 

And  the  evening  is  wondrous  fair. 

He  thinks,  as  her  girlish  laughter  rings, 

That  never  the  song  of  bird 
Was  filled  with  such  rippling  melody, 

And  dear  is  her  every  word; 
But  he  only  says  the  sounds  of  the  night 

Are  the  sweetest  he  ever  heard. 


JENNIE  NOONAN  WHELESS          201 

He  notes  each  charm  of  her  changeful  face, 

And  he  wonders  if  her  clear  eyes 
Discover  that  Love  is  standing  near, 

Though  he  lurks  in  a  coward 's  guise; 
And  his  own  heart  weakens  in  sudden  fear, 

And  he  falters  in  his  replies. 

0  poor,  little,  timorous,  trembling  god ! 

Lay  down  your  arrows  and  bow. 
No  weapons  are  needed  to  vanquish  him, 

Who  dreads  neither  peril  nor  foe, 
But  who  stands  afraid  of  a  slender  maid, 

As  she  smiles  in  the  moonlight's  glow. 


202  STARK  YOUNG 


STARK  YOUNG 

Stark  Young  was  born  at  Como,  Panola  county,  in  1881,  and 
was  educated  at  the  University  of  Mississippi.  For  a  time  he 
held  a  chair  in  the  University  of  Texas;  at  present,  however, 
he  is  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  Amherst  College,  Amherst, 
Mass.  He  is  the  author  of  three  volumes:  "The  Blind  Man 
at  the  Window,"  ' ' Guenevere, M  and  "Addio,  Madretta,  and 
Other  Plays." 

Love  and  Sleep 

A  SILENT  castle  on  a  gloaming  hill, 
Dark  cypresses  against  a  sky  that  fades, 
And  drowsy  homing  birds  that  circling  fill 
The  air  with  wings,  from  out  the  shades 
Chirps  and  low  flutterings  and  the  stir  of  leaves, 
The  droning  choir  of  flies  above  the  moat, 
Dull-dropping  water  and  a  pasture  bell, 
Lone  calling  dove  with  sorrow-laden  throat, 
I  thought  on  all  but  sleep  wrought  not  her  spell. 
Then  came  a  blank  before  mine  eyes,  a  flight, 
And  lo!     I  saw  a  fairer  land,  the  moon, 
Watched  o'er  a  pathless  sky  of  summer  night, 
And  one  sang  softly  that  the  hills  did  swoon, 
And  drew  her  nearer  and  smiled  and  beckoned 

me — 
And  then  I  knew  I  slept  and  dreamed  of  thee. 


STARK  YOUNG  203 


Sonnet 

I  SAW  a  blind  man  at  his  window  sitting 

At  dusk,  and  always  his  poor  eager  face 

Turned   upward   where   the   sweepers  voiced   the 

space 

And  rustled  all  the  dim  air  with  their  flitting. 
He  could  not  see  the  wind  move  o  'er  the  ground, 
Nor  the  faint  yellow  light  upon  the  hill, 
But  only  leaned  his  poor  hands  on  the  sill 
To  draw  the  lovely  evening  from  the  sound. 
Dear  God,  within  this  window  to  the  sky, 
From  shadowed  chamber  of  our  life  we  watch, 
Likewise  eager  and  blind,  and  haply  catch 
Now  airy  strain  or  angel  wing  brushed  by, 
Or  silence  rich  from  the  glory  of  thy  day, 
And,  sightless,  only  hear  and  feel  and  pray. 


Reaper's  Song 

THE  sunlight  breaks  across  the  waste, 
And  lights  the  purple-shadowed  fen, 
Oho,  my  reapers,  reapers,  wake, 
And  swing  the  scythe  with  me  again ! 

"What  though  to  merchants  be  the  gain, 
And  labour  starve  to  fatten  trade, 
To  richen  us  the  golden  sheaves 
And  music  of  the  clanging  blade. 


204  STARK  YOUNG 

What  though  the  money  make  the  man, 
And  conscience  knuckle  in  to  wrong, 
To  us  the  majesty  of  toil, 
And   God  within   the   sunrise   song. 

So  up,  my  reapers,  with  the  sun, 
4nd  follow  me  across  the  fen, 
Oho,  my  reapers,  reapers  wake, 

swing  the  scythe  with  me  again ! 


The  Choice  of  Death 

IN  the  deep  night  to  fall  asleep 
With  thee  in  dreams  beside  me  here ! 
Beyond  thy  face  I  see  the  fields 
In  shadowy  starlight  far  and  near, 
Beyond  thy  breath  I  hear  the  wind 
Move  far-off  like  some  wanderer 
That  with  his  soaring  passion  sets 
The  wide  wings  of  the  world  astir. 
To  look  at  last  on  thy  still  face 
Even  as  the  dark  seals  up  mine  eyes 
And  keep  thee  yet,  though  I  shall  walk 
Amid  the  stars  of  Paradise. 


YB  78069 


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